Spike: the Series
by starry-oblivion
Summary: Five years after the destruction of Sunnydale, Spike finds himself back in California. Joined by some new faces and old allies, he must conquer his own inner demons if he intends on surviving various onslaughts, including the opening of a new Hellmouth.
1. Precious Little Meltdown

**Author's Note**: This story is written as though it were an actual television series. Each chapter will be the equivalent of one episode, and the line breaks will be simlar to commercial breaks or scene shifts. The plot follows canon up until the end of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_, and Spike's involvement with the _Angel_ gang becomes somewhat AU (they're mentioned, but I took a few liberties and they don't become a focal point of the main story). Some comic book canon is also utilized (mostly the season eight Buffy comics).

As of right now, I'm planning on making this last half a season (12 "episodes"/chapters). As this is my first foray into writing for these characters, I appreciate any and all feedback so future chapters can improve. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

_You want the answers to be in a tongue you understand  
You're looking for someone like me to tell you when to throw your hand  
What battles to fight, what causes are right  
Then I drown in a precious little meltdown_

-"Precious Little Meltdown" by Adam Pascal

* * *

"So you understand what I'm getting at, right?"

Marissa closed her eyes. The bright strobes lining the small stage of _Neon_ weren't the only reason for her to look away. She couldn't bear looking Robbie in the eye, not after the long-winded way he just told her that she, essentially, was the worst girlfriend in the history of girlfriends. "Yeah," she answered quietly. "I guess."

Judging by the loud, "What?" that came from Robbie, either the band was too loud or the lounge was too packed for her to be heard. Rock music and the presence of half the people in town; it wasn't exactly the most tactful setting for a bad break-up.

"Yes," she told him in a louder voice. She looked at him, angry that his broad face didn't seem to register how inappropriate his behavior was. Aren't there certain rules of dating etiquette that are programmed into our brains at the same time we learn to blink and breathe? "Yes, I get what you're saying. You're unhappy, you have no idea why, but it must be my fault, so it's over. It's not exactly rocket science, Rob."

"That's not what I said at all-"

"Then maybe you should've taken me someplace more private to dump me so I could hear you!" Marissa was flushed, half-expecting the music to suddenly end and enable everyone to hear her heated outburst.

"I'm not 'dumping' you," Robbie protested. "Jeez, you make it sound like I'm passing a half-digested…. Look, the point is, cliché or no, it really has nothing to do with you. You understand? It's me. It's really me. I'm changing, and it's not for the better. I'm just cutting off my ties before things get too outta control, y'know?"

"Cutting your ties?" Marissa asked incredulously. "The way you talk, it sounds like you're gonna shave your head and become a Tibetan monk or something. What, is it delayed puberty or something? Your body doing things you don't want it to do?"

Though she couldn't hear him, she saw him lower his brown eyes as he muttered something. It sounded akin to, "Something like that." Just as Marissa was about to ask after it, he looked back up at her. While Robbie Wilson would never be defined as an intellectual, one would be a liar to claim that he wasn't determined. And right now, it seemed as though he was determined to break someone's heart.

"If you wanna believe that it's you, then fine. It _is_ you. It's the way you're lost in your own little world half the time and the way you worship the heroes instead of the ordinary people all around you. It's the way you wanna be a hero and think you can do that by yelling at your problems and making them go away instead of confronting them. It's the way you keep planning for some kinda war instead of living your life. Jesus, you've spent two years in college and you still have no idea what you wanna major in or what you're even doing there to begin with."

Marissa gaped at him as he stood up and downed the rest of his drink. Slamming the glass on the table, he gave her a hard glare as she opened her mouth to speak. "Don't," he interrupted. "Don't you dare. Don't give me that speech. Don't give me that, 'Don't you know who I am?' bit that you've been giving everyone since you moved here. Yeah, I know who you are. You're Marissa Harris, just another scared villager from the happy town of Sunnydale that managed to escape before it became a smoking crater. If you're looking for some respect for that, you might wanna try getting up from under your mother's thumb and moving outta the suburbs, princess. I hear life's a real riot on the outside."

Marissa's mouth remained open as he passed her by, still trying to articulate the words. Finally, she slid out of her seat and turned to face him. "Are you a vampire?"

By this time, the music had indeed stopped; at the sound of her voice, so did Robbie. A few people laughed nervously whereas the rest of the patrons didn't know how to react. Even the band that was walking off the stage spared her a questioning glance.

Robbie turned around and looked at her. Realizing how stupid the question had been, Marissa wondered what exactly he was seeing. Was he seeing his ex-girlfriend, or was he seeing just some girl with running mascara and too many emotional scars for his liking? With his eternally doleful expression, it was difficult to tell.

"No," came the reply. "I am not a vampire, Marissa. Sometimes bad things happen to people that don't involve vampires. When that happens, it's called real life. You may want to live in it once in a while." That said, he turned his back on her and left _Neon_.

What he didn't know was that he wasn't leaving Marissa alone.

* * *

_Ugh, I'm gaining weight_, Marissa thought as she struggled to button up her denim jacket.

She had remained seated at _Neon_ for another ten minutes, hoping to put enough distance between her and Robbie so she wouldn't somehow run into him and also hoping that enough time would pass so she wouldn't leave a whisper of voices in her wake. She knew the latter was an impossibility, which is what finally made her finish her Diet Coke and leave the club.

_Maybe that's the real reason he left me_, she continued thinking as she walked through the empty streets. _I'm getting fat. Well, fatt_er_. And who wants to date a fat chick? Certainly not a dumb jock like Robbie Wilson. And when you break up with a fat chick, you can't just tell her that she's fat. Because then you'd be an _insensitive_ dumb jock. So you use the classic line of, "it's not you, it's me," and insist that it really _is_…._

Unfortunately, Marissa knew better. Woodridge wasn't quite as cutely suburban as Sunnydale, but it was small enough so that people talked. And people knew. After the demolition of her hometown, everyone suddenly became aware that the weird rumors about the neighboring town were probably more than just rumors. Vampires, witches, and Slayers, oh my.

_I was stupid to ask if he was a vampire_, Marissa knew. _It's just that that was the only thing I could guess, if he was just saying that he's going through some "changes" and won't give me any details. And _that's_ the problem: it was the only thing I knew to say. Vampires are the reason for every bad thing in life. Stupid, Marissa. Real stupid. You're really living up to the Harris namesake, aren't y-_

She suddenly stopped and whirled around. It was partly instinct, and partly that familiar paranoid feeing of being followed. It usually amounted to nothing, but she always thought it was best to catch the bad guy off-guard. Instead, she was the one who was off-guard when she saw there was actually someone following her.

The man stopped, surprised that he had been detected. Putting his hands in his jeans pockets, he grinned as he drawled out, "Well, looks like we got us an observant one, don't we?" Marissa glanced up. Cowboy hat. She glanced down. Cowboy boots. A good ol' boy if she ever did see one, and she never had.

"'_We_' look like we might be suffering from a case of paranoid schizophrenia," she remarked, her hand slowly reaching into her pocket. "Or multiple personality disorder. I'm not really cleared to make a proper diagnosis."

His grin only widened and his green eyes seemed to shine in the streetlight as he noticed her reaching into her pocket. "What ya plannin' to do there? Plannin' on _stakin'_ me? Yuh carry a stake around with yuh, do yuh?"

"Maybe," Marissa bluffed, her hands tightening around the mace she always carried around with her as she wondered what he was getting at. "You never know when you might meet somebody who deserves a stake through the heart, know what I mean?"

He laughed. "'tween that and the comment back in the club, I reckon that you're one o' those escapees from Sunnydale a few years back. From what I heard, some pretty little college gal vaporized the whole place to get rid o' the monsters. Somethin' that big must've been upsetting. Leavin' yuh all… now what's the word?"

"Traumatized?" Marissa offered bitterly. "Paranoid?"

"Yeah," he responded. "Yeah, them's it. Bet lots o' people make fun 'cos yuh worry that every missin' person done got himself turned into a vampire. Betcha that's why the boyfriend told yuh he was hightailin' it, huh? Couldn't take no more o' the girl who cried vamp?"

Marissa looked away. The guy was a few yards away from her, so he couldn't move without her seeing him, but she still knew that it was stupid to break eye contact with him. She didn't consider him a threat to her physically so much as she was showing that he had gotten to her. Suffice to say, Marissa was not thinking properly that night.

"I'm guessin' that this situation," the stranger continued, "might be what yuh call ironic."

Gazing upwards, it took everything Marissa had to stifle a cry. That face. She had seen it before. Not that exact face, no. But it's hard not to remember the trademark lumpy forehead and sharp canines. You never forget a vamp-face.

Forgetting about even attempting a face-off, she turned on her heels and ran. That was the basic idea, anyway. As she fell onto her left side and felt a heavy weight fall on top of her, she wondered why no one ever bothered to mention to her that real vampires had the same kind of super speed as Anne Rice's vampires.

"Slow gal," he chuckled. "Reckon all that paranoia still ain't enough to make yuh work out. The bad thing 'bout Sunnydale gettin' turned to smoke is that now I ain't got no Slayer to chase around for sport." Pulling at her, he inquired, "How about turnin' 'round and givin' me a bit o' what the boyfriend gave up on, huh?"

Though her left elbow was stinging terribly, her right hand was still in working condition. "My pleasure," Marissa breathed. Pulling her hand out of her pocket, she held the mace up and sprayed, praying that the nozzle was in the right direction. Luckily, it was. Unluckily, the vampire was so close that some of the spray rebounded from his face and hit her as well.

She closed her eyes quickly, but that didn't stop the burning any. Fortunately, the vampiric cowboy got the worst of it and let out a harsh yell. Though she couldn't see, Marissa lashed out with her good arm and landed a solid punch _somewhere_, causing the vampire to back off.

Her eyes still clenched shut, she crawled away and tried to remember if rubbing her eyes would make the burning better or worse. She was behind the high school, and no one was likely to be around there on a Saturday night. No matter how loud she screamed, she'd have to rely on her dose of the pepper spray wearing off before his if she had any hopes of not becoming a late-night snack.

Crawling along the sidewalk, Marissa bumped her head against the streetlight and collapsed. "Ow," she whimpered. To herself, she pondered, _I wonder if the Slayer ever got hit with her own pepper spray and gave herself a concussion because of it?_ Remembering that the Slayer wouldn't need mace to begin with, she blindly reached out for the streetlight and used it as a crutch to get onto her feet.

As she braced herself for a fierce attack by an enraged vampire, Marissa thought she heard signs of a struggle behind her. "Oh, thank God," she murmured, ashamed that she found herself relying on what she hoped was backup. She dimly noted that her right hand still clenched the mace tightly, but she wasn't sure how much good it would do if she couldn't see enough to aim for the eyes or mouth. Having another pair of eyes on her side would be a godsend.

She slowly opened her eyes just enough to peer through her lashes. She saw that the new arrival was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing what looked like a battered brown leather jacket. Classic chivalric rescuer of the damsel in distress. The thought made her blink through the tears and open her eyes a little more. By the time she managed to get them open halfway, she saw a cowboy hat at her feet and saw a beaten cowboy not too far away. He vanished in a plume of dust when the new arrival—who actually _had_ been packing a stake—stabbed him through the heart.

Carefully wiping away the involuntary tears, she looked at the man who had come to her rescue. He was crouched on the sidewalk with his back to her, and it looked as though he was trying to catch his breath. Probably another crazy paranoid survivor of Sunnydale; like the vamp said, no matter how crazily paranoid they were, they never quite exercised enough to deal with an actual vampire.

Daring herself to move away from the safety of the streetlight and stand on her own, Marissa gingerly wiped away the last of the tears. Her eyes still stung, but she wasn't going to run home to mommy to wash it out… at least, not without showing her gratitude first. "Thank you," she told him. "Thanks so much."

"Well, you know what they say." Marissa's eyes widened, though they protested the involuntary response of surprise with a bolt of pain. "In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king." As he spoke, he slowly turned his head enough to show half of his face, revealing that his left eye was sporting an eye patch.

After a long moment during which she didn't know how to respond, Marissa asked, "You've been waiting a _long_ time to say that, haven't you?"

Turning to face her, he greeted her with the amicable grin that he was well-known for during tumultuous family reunions. "Actually, I've said it lots of times. The good thing about not coming around for a lot of visits is that all of my stale jokes will sound new and exciting. Even the pirate ones. Yo-ho-ho."

Covering her face in her hands, Marissa didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "The pirate jokes have been done to death by your dad, Alex. The fact that Cousin Jeanie's wedding happened to fall on National Talk Like a Pirate Day only made it that much worse."

Sitting on the sidewalk as though he were taking a seat on his bedroom floor, Alexander Harris looked up at his cousin and remarked, "It's Xander, Mare. I've told you repeatedly. Alex is what my mother calls me when I make a bad decision. Actually, it's what she calls me all the time. What a coincidence."

"Sorry, and stop calling me Mare," Marissa requested, leaning against the lamppost. "I'm _not_ a small pony."

"No, no you're not," Xander agreed, rising to his feet. "You've grown some since the last time I saw you. You're what… eighteen now?"

"Nineteen," Marissa corrected quietly as Xander brushed his trousers free of dirt. "The whole Sunnydale thing happened just before I started high school, and it's been five years since. And after the Harris clan relocated to various places in sunny California, I discovered that a certain big cousin of mine decided to head out to the middle of Europe and live with a bunch of teenaged girls like the creepy pedo his father turned out to be. Our only consolation is that you're not a sloppy drunk… or has that changed, too?"

"I think you'll find that I'm a fairly tidy drunk," Xander replied. "Unless I happen to be fighting against a horde of undead minions, in which case a few bloody giblets might end up in my hair." Seeing Marissa's cold glance, he put his hands up as though in defense. "Kidding, kidding. The bloody giblets happen when I'm stone-cold sober, unfortunately. And as for me moving in with a bunch of teenaged girls in the middle of Europe, that's a gross exaggeration. It's _Western_ Europe, thank you very much."

"So did you cross the pond and most of America because you had a premonition that your beloved baby cousin would be in danger," Marissa asked, "or is California the source of yet another apocalypse?"

"Oh no, most of the apocalypses are happening over in Cleveland these days," Xander answered. "Don't worry, we've got a branch looking into it. And even if we didn't, well… you wouldn't know, would you?" Seeing that Marissa wasn't quite up to joking about it, Xander realized that she had probably changed a bit since the Sunnydale incident. "Hey, let's walk and talk, okay? Your eyes are looking a little red."

She knew that his concern was both genuine and an attempt to thwart the topic, but she followed him regardless and latched her arm around his. "What's the story, Al-… Xander? I know you're all super secret S.H.I.E.L.D.-type stuff and can't even give anyone your exact location, but if something brought you back to California, it's gotta be big, right? What, is it vampires? Demonic possession? Tap dancing aliens or something?"

"You have been watching _way_ too many _X-Files_ reruns, you know that?" Xander told her. "Can't you watch _Saw_ and _Hostel_ and all those other movies that normal kids watch? You've got vamps on the brain."

With a heavy sigh, Marissa looked down and remarked, "You're not the first guy to tell me that tonight."

"Trouble in Romance Land?"

"You the king there, too?"

"More like the court jester. Wanna talk about it?"

"No offense, Xan," Marissa told him, "but our age difference is coming into play a lot more as the years pass. You're, what, almost thirty?"

"If by 'almost' you mean not for another three whole years, then yes, almost," Xander replied with a smirk. "And I can tell you for a fact that men don't really mature much between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, so chances are that I'm not too old to help you with your love life, unless you've attracted the attention of a creepy pedo yourself."

"There's nothing to help," Marissa stated. "Like you said, I've just got vamps on the brain. And speaking of, you're distracting me from the point. What are you doing here instead of your undisclosed location in _Western _Europe?"

Xander said nothing for a long while. It gave Marissa time to prepare for the worst. While she didn't know about the Hellmouth that had been below the former Sunnydale High School, she had heard a good deal of gossip from the family, no doubt distorted accounts of the vague explanation that Xander had given his parents. One of his best friends was a vampire slayer. _The_ Slayer, in fact. Until she somehow created a bunch of new Slayers that purged Sunnydale of its vampires or demons or some ultimate evil or something like that. Since he was one of the few people she trusted, Xander went off with her to help train the new Slayers. Train them for what, Marissa wasn't sure. But she imagined that it was to keep other nice, quiet towns from becoming another Sunnydale.

"Dad's dying."

Marissa blinked and returned her gaze to Xander. "What?"

"He's dying," Xander repeated. "Liver cancer. At long last, the bottle has its revenge. He went in complaining of stomach cramps, went out with a chemotherapy appointment and approximately two months to live. He won't go to chemo, of course, because he'll claim that we can't afford it, but I think the old man's just scared. For once in his life, he's actually scared of something, and he doesn't want to do anything that'll prolong it. Just let it kill him and go away."

Marissa knew all of this, of course. Her mother had told her when she received the news from Xander's mother two weeks ago. She just hadn't thought that Xander would care enough to postpone saving the world so he can spend time with a man that she hadn't even thought he loved. Clearly he _did_ care, so Marissa thought it was wrong to tell him that she thought his father was being a coward about the whole thing.

"Good thing I didn't end up like that," Xander surprised her by saying. Reaching up, his fingertips gently touched the edges of his patch. "They say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? I think what _does_ kill you deserves to get its ass kicked while you're on your way out. Buff taught me that, and it's… oh wow, I think my one remaining eye is busted. It's leaking."

As he reached over to brush away the stray tears, Marissa sought for something to say. "A guy should never have to worry about a little extra lubrication, huh?" Her joke was rewarded with a laugh, and Marissa decided that men didn't really change at _all_ between their teens and late twenties if he found that funny.

"Extra lube never hurt anyone," Xander agreed. Marissa realized the full implications of his comment first and burst out laughing, causing Xander to follow suit. By the time they finished, he was dry-eyed once again. "It's no big deal," he finally said. "I mean, yeah, he is my dad and I suppose dying _is_ kind of a big deal for him. But I'm not going to turn around and extol his non-existent virtues now, you know? That kind of hypocrisy would earn me nothing but a welt, anyway, if the old man had his way."

After a moment, Marissa asked, "So, how long are you staying? Or do you not know? Because, I mean, apocalypses wait for no man, not even one as infamous as your dad."

"I'll go along with you on the 'infamous' bit," Xander replied. "I'm only here for a week. Figured that was enough time for Dad to tell me he can't stand the sight of me and throw me out so I can visit the family. So far, so good. I just came back from your mom's place and she told me you were out with your boyfriend." He paused for a moment before bringing up, "Is this the jerk who jinxed you by saying you were too into vamps for your own good?"

"Yes and no," Marissa replied. "Yes, it's the same jerk. But no… he's not my boyfriend. Not anymore." Marissa fell silent after that, remembering the embarrassing ending to a thoroughly embarrassing date.

"Oh man," Xander bemoaned. "Don't tell me that good for nothing son of a female dog had an issue with that. Does he _not_ know you're from Sunnydale? Does he _not_ get that being chased out of a town overrun by vampires and other things that go bump in the night isn't exactly something a fourteen-year-old girl gets over?"

"It's been five years, Xander," she reminded him dully. "Technically speaking, he had a point. I mean, you've gotten over the whole losing an eye thing and can make jokes about it. Me, this little skirmish tonight would probably set my therapy back two years, if I was going to therapy."

"This is different," he argued. "Woodridge, Hyland, all of these little towns are right next to the remains of Sunnydale. And while everyone who knows the whole story is currently scattered across the world raising baby Slayers to kick some demonic butt, I'm sure that only means that the locals around here have speculated a lot of pretty scary situations for why an entire town just stopped existing one morning. So if Mister 'You've-Got-Vamps-on-the-Brain' is using that against you, he's a dirty liar and deserves his own personalized can of Xander Harris Whoop Ass."

Before Marissa could respond, a sudden clap echoed out from around the corner they were approaching. It was followed by another and then another, and by the time Xander pulled Marissa to a halt, she realized that it was the sound of a person slowly and deliberately clapping his hands, as though in sarcastic congratulations.

"That was one _hell_ of a speech," said an unfamiliar voice from around the corner. Judging by the way Xander stiffened, however, he was indeed familiar with the snarky English accent. "Well played, Harris. I suppose a few years playing Go Fish with the Amazons have helped to up your testosterone levels. Ironic, that."

From around the corner stepped a man wearing a long trench coat. He was clad entirely in black, making his pale skin and his bleached hair all the more startling. Marissa noticed that even his fingernails were painted with cracked black nail polish. The smile on his face was the very definition of smug, and he seemed to revel both in the shock Xander exuded and the wary appraisal Marissa was giving him.

"Now that you've cheered up the pup with thoughts of your big manly fists pounding her imbecile of an ex-boyfriend into a pulp," he continued, "how about we go off and have a chat about the _real_ reason you're in town?"

After a moment of silence, Xander finally moaned, "Does _no one_ from Sunnydale stay dead?"

The stranger looked perplexed. "What, you didn't know I was formerly working with Angel?"

"_You_ were working with _Angel_?!"

"Pfft," scoffed the man in the trench coat. "Some Watcher _you_ turned out to be."

Xander looked aghast. "How did _you_ know-… I'm _not_ a Watcher! That's just what Buffy…. Oh, I see what this is! Even _dead_ you can't get over your obsession with Buffy. What, since you can't stalk her family, you're stalking mine and Willow's, is that how you're doing this?"

"Give it a rest, Cyclops," came the reply as the blond man took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "For a split second, I thought you matured somewhat. Giving the pup some encouragement and offering a threat of actual violence instead of just being on the cheering squad. If _you_ can move on, I'm insulted that you don't think I can, too." The cigarette in his mouth, he patted his pockets for a moment before looking towards Marissa. "You wouldn't happen to have a light, would you, love?"

"_Don't_ call her that!" Xander boomed.

"Smoking will kill you," Marissa uttered absently.

Smirking, the blond replied, "I'll keep that in mind, pet."

"Don't call her _that_, either!" Xander exclaimed.

Taking the cigarette from his mouth and beginning to lose his patience, the blond asked, "What would you have me call her, then? The only other names I can think of at the moment are either already in use for someone else or are what you'd call unsavory. Or both."

Before Marissa could mention that he could try calling her by her name, Xander interjected with, "Don't call her _anything_. Don't call her. At all. You're not to address her. You're not to address me in front of her. When she's around, you do not exist, as it should be."

With a smile, the man asked, "An order from Nick Fury himself?"

"From Nick Fury to Captain Peroxide, yes. And I'm surprised you know that reference."

"I watched _Iron Man_. And need I remind you that I _did_ help to save the world? And on more than one occasion, too."

"And need I remind you," Xander countered, "that I've woken up with a bloody gash on my head because of you on _way_ more than one occasion? Pardon me if there's bad blood between us, no pun intended."

Pointing his finger at Xander as though making the ultimate point, the blond shot back, "Keep in mind that I never went for your neck. That's gotta count for something, yeah?"

Neck? With all of the recent talk about vampires, Marissa didn't think she was fit to be present for this conversation. "Um, Xander? I think I'm gonna head on home. You can talk things out with your friend, okay?"

She was about to walk past the blond when Xander pulled her back, stepping between the two of them. "I'm walking you home. If he's got something he wants to say to me, he can tell me where to meet him and no one will have to get unnecessarily involved."

"Actually, I'd much rather speak to you now," he responded.

"Well _tough_!" Xander proclaimed. "I'd much rather have gone on living life thinking you died a hero. You've caused me a whole lotta grief, pal, so while I'm willing to be an adult about things, we'll talk about this after I take her home."

With that, Xander pulled at Marissa's arm, dragging her away. Just when she was about to ask what all _that_ had been about, the man's voice broke the silence of the night from directly behind them. "Good idea, Harris. Then I can just follow up behind you and we can sit on her porch and have a nice civil talk. And if I find out you're withholding information from me or otherwise planning on stabbing me in the back—or front, as both are just as bad if you've got a pointy stick in your hand—then I can always go back to pay your dear cousin Marissa Harris a visit." Seeing Xander stop, he knew he had hit a sore spot and added, "What's past is past. Now that you're in town, let's see to it that innocent people like her get a future, all right, One Eye?"

Xander slowly turned to glare at his old acquaintance. While Marissa was completely in the dark, she noticed that this man kept making certain references that should stand out in her mind for some reason or the other, but the events of the past thirty minutes made it difficult for her to think in a strictly linear pattern. All she managed to notice was that he had produced a book of matches from somewhere and was now lighting his cigarette.

"How did you know her name?" Xander asked at last.

"I'm a lucky sort of bloke," he answered. "I just happened to be sitting at the neighborhood hotspot and noticed an argument between her and her former beau. He mentioned her full name—a sure sign that it _was_ an argument—and the town Sunnydale. I wondered if another Harris from Sunnydale would have information on you, but she looked a bit down in the mouth, so I managed to get the boy talking." At this, he glanced at Marissa. "He was telling the truth by the way; he's not a vampire."

"You asked the guy if he was a vampire?" Xander asked disbelievingly.

"I _told_ you he said I have vamps on the brain!" Marissa exclaimed.

"From what I can tell, though, he's got much bigger issues on his mind than vampirism," the blond continued. "Keep an eye on him. At any rate, I did manage to find out that the two of you were related, but he was understandably reluctant to tell me any more details. It didn't take too long for me to catch up with her here, and it just so happened that you can say the same. Now that we're up to date on one another's stories, First Mate Harris and I have more important things to discuss."

"She was attacked," Xander told him. "By a _vampire_. I'm not leaving her until I know she's safe."

"Well," came the wry response, "you'd better bring her with us then, don't you think?" After observing the hard look from Xander, the man smirked once again and assured, "Don't worry; I won't bite."

"That is _such_ a not cool joke coming from you," Xander responded.

"What made you think it was a joke?"

"Okay, whoa, excuse me," Marissa cried out. "I've just been dumped, assaulted, rescued, and had a whole lot of important-sounding information go way over my head. The only thing I fully understand is that we're standing a block away from where a vampire just tried to _eat_ me. So if we could head towards the home base or towards a more public domain, my nerves would really, really appreciate it."

"Back to _Neon_, then," the blond said. "And you should consider taking up smoking. Or drinking. Say what you want about vice, but it's a lot more fun than being a nervous old biddy at the age of sixteen."

"I'm nineteen," Marissa told him as she followed after him, having to be pulled back by Xander before she got too close.

With a small smile, the man replied, "When you get to be my age, the teen years are all the same. A shame I didn't have more fun with mine. Luckily, I had plenty of fun with others'."

"Hey!" Xander barked out sharply. "See, that kind of talk? That kind of talk is what keeps the bad blood boiling. It's bad enough that you're going to want to talk about things that we shouldn't be talking about in front of her, but let's keep your various conquests out of the conversation, okay?"

"Aw," the blond responded. "I thought we bonded during all those times we lived together." When he saw Marissa gawk at Xander, he stopped in his tracks and sternly said, "Hey, I didn't mean it like _that_, all right? Do I look like a nancy to you?"

"I don't know _what_ you look like," Marissa replied with a raised eyebrow, "other than the poster child of goth fashion gone horribly wrong."

He looked surprised, but then turned back to Xander as he pointed to her with his cigarette and continued walking. "Nice piece of work you've got in your family tree. At least _this_ one's a sight prettier than the bag who asked me for hair advice at your wedding."

"Oh God, _you're_ the reason Aunt Sylvie went platinum?" Marissa asked. "Xander, what the heck was this guy doing at your wedding anyway? Who is he?" Seeing Xander shift uncomfortably, she shut her mouth and realized that he probably didn't want to talk about a wedding that he walked out on.

"What, you mean Dog Boy talks about the Slayer and the witch and probably even that insufferable librarian, but he's never mentioned me?" Though he looked amused, Marissa wondered if there wasn't a part of him that was genuinely hurt.

"I'm a superstitious kind of guy," Xander answered. "Ever since Will told me about name magic, I feared that saying your name would be like a kind of talisman that would magically bring you to me, and Lord knows I wouldn't have wanted to disturb what should've been your eternal rest."

"How sweet of you," he replied sarcastically. "But since I'm here, there's not much damage in saying my name, eh? But concentrate hard on the name Jack Daniels, and maybe we'll get lucky." To Marissa, he said, "Name's Spike, love."

"Oh God," Marissa remarked. "Even your _name_ is indicative of goth gone wrong."

"Can I bite her?" Spike asked.

"Can I kill you?" Xander retorted.

* * *

"I'll say one thing for this place," Spike commented. "It must be fun watching an epileptic come in."

They had just sat down on three stools at a corner table in _Neon_. The band was long gone, but the night was still relatively young and so music was pumping in through the speakers and the crowd had thinned out only somewhat. The bright green walls with the electric blue swirls were allowed to distract the mind in peace, since the pink and orange strobe lights were now off. A line of vintage arcade games lined the wall opposite the bar, interrupting the music with the occasional _pow_, _boom_, and _ka-blaam_. Somehow, three pool tables and a dance floor fit between the games and the bar, causing an even greater flurry of activity than should be allowed in a sleepy little town by law. "Jeez Mare," Xander remarked as he sat down at the round silver table and matching stool. "It's a wonder you're not frothing at the mouth when you get home from here."

"Right then," Spike said. "Who'll be doing the buying? As the pup just got her heart broken, I suggest one of us do the chivalric thing and spring for her. I recommend a coin toss, because Rock Paper Scissors is full of cheats."

"This isn't a social call," Xander told him. "You seem to be under the impression that I've got some kind of hidden agenda, so I'm thinking that you're keeping your ear to the ground just like old times. So while you don't have that chip in your head anymore, I'm still sure I can get any important info I want out of you, especially if it's vital to saving human lives."

"They have blooming onions here," Spike said.

"Ooh, blooming onions?" Xander asked, surprised. Withdrawing a quarter from his pocket, he said, "Call it," just before flicking it into the air.

"Tails," Spike called.

"Nuts," Xander replied, seeing the outcome.

"I didn't know U.S. currency was printed with _those_."

"Cut the perv talk around my baby cousin, okay?" Xander asked as he took out his wallet.

"_You_ were the one talking about lube earlier," Marissa reminded him.

Seeing Spike open his mouth to comment, Xander told him, "Make _one_ incest joke and you can go get your _own_ blooming onion." Taking a twenty dollar bill from his wallet, he asked Marissa, "What do you want?"

"Let _her_ worry about what she wants," Spike told him. "After all, she's getting the stuff." Seeing Marissa look at him, he asked, "What? I got you off the hook from paying for your own food, so the least you can do is go order it, right?"

"You just want to get rid of me for a few minutes," Marissa realized.

"How very perceptive," Spike replied.

Deciding that arguing would be pointless and that she probably didn't want to hear about any of Xander's secretive demonology stuff that might result in another end of the world, she slid out of her seat and took Xander's money, asking each of them what they wanted. When Spike mentioned wanting a whiskey sour, she eyed him skeptically. "You _do_ know I'm nineteen, right?"

"So?"

"Legal drinking age in this country is twenty-one. They won't sell it to me."

"Bugger," Spike muttered, looking down. "Just a Coke, then, pet." Shooting Xander one last wary glance, Marissa took the money and went off to get the food and drinks. After making sure that she was gone, Spike glanced up at Xander and said, "Those orders will take her two trips to bring back, unless they give her a tray, which they never do here. I'm guessing we've got about eight minutes of free speech time, unless the pup decides to come back to the big people table while she waits for the food."

"Marissa's a Harris who actually made it to college," Xander told him. "That means she's got brains _and_ common sense. She might be curious, but I'll bet she understands that I'd rather she not overhear any of this."

"Lovely," Spike responded. "Then you've got eight minutes to tell me everything you know."

"Me?" Xander replied. "I thought _you_ had something to tell me."

"Seven minutes and fifty seconds, Harris," Spike told him. "Stop being cute. It didn't work when you were a construction worker and it sure as hell doesn't work with whatever your official title is now. Whatever it is that you do now, you're most likely at the Slayer's right hand. She can't let you go for a full week just to pay your respects to a man you can't stand, especially not when he's still alive. I don't know how your operation works, but it's most definitely an operation, and there's protocol that goes with it. The old man being on his deathbed may be true, but it's simply as good a reason as any to have one of their most trusted men come out here to survey the situation. So you will tell me everything your people know, and I will tell you everything I've heard. I'm not asking for cash. This is just a simple trade-off of information for now. Thanks to my prattling, you've just over seven minutes. Make it worth it."

Xander narrowed his eye at Spike before stating, "Rumors of increased activity around the former Sunnydale Hellmouth. Came here to investigate. Your turn."

Spike blinked dumbly. Narrowing his eyes as well, he hissed, "I told you not to be cute."

"That wasn't cute," Xander replied. "That was being concise. You learn how to do it when you're in a respected position of power."

"Position of power?" Spike scoffed. "And what, you think that somehow makes you better than me?"

"No," Xander answered. "I think the fact that I don't need to drink blood to survive is what makes me better than you. The fact that I'm not hunted by human and demon alike makes me better than you. And the fact that I have a better wardrobe is what makes me cuter than you. Next question, please."

"Keep talking like that," Spike warned. "It's no wonder the pup thinks I'm a ponce."

"_You're_ the one that kept using the word cute," Xander informed him. "What you do to whom and how you do it are none of my concerns, and I'd love to keep it that way." Spike said nothing for a moment, and Xander realized what he had just said. "Yeah, I know. You banged my best friend and my ex-fiancée." Trying to shrug it off, he looked away and muttered, "You also said the past is past. You've got about six minutes to go over your end of the story."

Spike wondered if he should say anything about his brief tryst with Xander's now-deceased ex, but decided that everything worth saying on the subject had already been said. Concise. He could be concise.

"Ghost sightings," Spike started. "Not quite as many demons as you'd think, though I've seen three or four in town since I got here in July. But mostly, it's ghosts. They normally appear in the cemetery or at the sites of accidents or murders. Pale, incorporeal, your classic Casper. I should know."

"Ghosts?" Xander asked incredulously. "I don't get it. The precogs were saying that this was some heavy duty, grade-A stuff. Almost as bad as the First. Other than ghosts being considered by some people to be an ominous sign-"

"Congratulations," Spike told him bitterly. "You got your 'position of power' by being book smart and not knowing a bloody thing about applying what you know. _Why_ are ghosts looked at as bad portents? Because they're a sign of another world coming in contact with ours. Something that shouldn't exist in our plane actually manifesting itself on a regular basis is a hell of a lot scarier than something that's _supposed_ to be here, like demons or the First. One ghost, no problem. Two ghosts, fine. Three ghosts, must be a field trip. Go to the cemetery after you take the pup home tonight. That's not fog you're seeing between the tombstones; that's Casper after Casper after Casper. And with every flying sheet that makes its way into our world, two things are happening: there's an increased chance of something hitching a ride back with them, and the fabric that separates the various planes gets torn apart just a little bit more."

Taking all of this in, Xander said, "So I'm guessing that you believe something's causing this on purpose? That something's either trying to hitch a ride back with these ghosts or is trying to bring our world closer to this spirit world? Or both?"

"Both, without question," Spike replied. "And think about it: if this town and all of the towns within a 50-mile radius of this place are experiencing the same thing—and believe me, I've checked—then that's one hell of a big square being pulled out of the universal quilt. A square that big that funnels right into one of the hell dimensions that these ghosts are coming from…."

"And we've got a Hellmouth," Xander finished. "Bigger, badder, and new and improved."

"Precisely," Spike went on. "I was hoping this would attract the attention of some Slayerettes, since there's no bloody way a lone wolf like me is gonna avoid the fallout of whatever's gonna happen here, especially since I don't have my own pocket librarian a phone call away to feed me all of the answers."

"Lone wolf, huh?" Xander mused. "I'm guessing that partnership with Angel didn't last long."

Spike was silent before quietly stating, "Where the hell is your headquarters; under a rock?" Taking a deep though unnecessary breath, he requested, "Look, just… don't tell the Slayer, all right?"

Not needing anything more, Xander's face went blank. "Dead?"

"Dust," Spike confirmed. "But he saved the world. And hell, you could have said the same for me just an hour ago, so who knows what's really what? The trouble is, most of his contacts went down with him or after him, and lots of them were humans, who rarely get themselves dusted off and put back on the playing field. Unless they happen to be the Slayer, of course. How is she, by the way?"

"Look, I told you that this wasn't a social call-"

"No, it isn't," Spike agreed. "But we went over the facts already. Lots of floating dead people means that someone is trying to open up a Hellmouth with a radius of at least fifty miles. I've got no leads on who or what that could be. As far as I know, it might even be a natural phenomenon and will pass on its own—though I doubt your little precogs or whatnot would have sent you out here if that was the case. Since I've got nothing else to say, and you had nothing but a couple of sentences to offer me, then there's no reason I can't throw in an inquiry about an old friend."

"Old friend?" Xander scorned.

"Yes, old friend," Spike told him, beginning to get a little heated. "Yes, I slept with her. Yes, I loved her. Yes, I hurt her. But I also fought alongside her and talked to her and listened to her when she needed to get some talking done. All else aside, she's my friend, and may well be my only living friend in the world right now." Looking down at his hands resting on the table, he quieted down as he concluded, "And I'm hers. Her friend. Whether or not she wants me to be, I am. Because when you go through hell and back with a person—_for_ a person—time and distance can't well change that."

Xander remained quiet for a long, long time. No, he would never trust Spike. No, he would never even marginally _like_ Spike. All the good a person may do will always be wiped out by a single, unforgiveable crime. With Spike, his crime wasn't that he wasn't human. Xander would be one hell of a hypocrite to tar and feather him for that after having been engaged to Anya. Spike's crime lay in what he had done to Buffy. No matter how many years had passed, Xander would always see Spike and remember the night that he had tried to take Buffy by force. He would always look at Spike and see not a martyr or a redeemed soul, but a rapist. Vampire or human, sinner or saint, Spike would never be worthy of redemption after that.

But Spike wasn't looking for redemption. He had long given up the hope of being accepted by Xander as an ally, if he had ever even had that hope. He was only sitting here and talking to Xander right now because he had been the one who had business in the neighborhood, not Willow or Dawn. And it was only coincidence that Spike had run into his cousin during the week that Xander was in town. …wasn't it?

"She's fine," Xander finally replied. "As fine as anyone who's carrying the world on her shoulders _can_ be. We've gotten through a couple of rough patches recently, but you know Buff. Once you've averted _one_ Doomsday, there are still 364 days in the year." Spike nodded. After a moment, Xander queried, "Want me to give her some kind of message for you?"

"Would it actually get delivered?" Spike asked wryly.

"No," Xander answered honestly. "It just seemed polite to ask."

With a small chuckle, Spike said, "I actually sort of admire that about you, Harris."

"What?"

"You tell the truth to your enemies… and you lie to your friends." Spike looked him in the eye, as though daring him to deny it. He didn't. "It's like that saying about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. Then the only people you hurt are your enemies… unless your friends find out they've been lied to."

"My friends trust me with intelligence and their lives," Xander told him. "I don't betray their trust."

"Not usually, you mean," Spike amended. "People are betrayers by nature. One out of twelve apostles is a Judas. And Judas thought he was doing it for all of the right reasons. In a way, he was. So even in betrayal, he was still righteous."

"Didn't he hang himself?" Xander asked.

"If you believe the legends and the _Jesus Christ Superstar_ version," Spike replied with a small frown. "But if you ascribe to the movie version of _JCS_, you also believed that Christ looked like Johnny Depp." After a moment, Spike added, "If you can avoid mentioning it, maybe it'd be better that the Slayer not know I'm alive. And that she not know that Angel's dead. It might confuse her little heart and break it all at the same time. I'm not in the business of breaking hearts."

"No," Xander concurred, "just necks."

With a smile, Spike mentioned, "I like to suck out the marrow when I'm done."

With a disgusted expression on his face, Xander said, "And on that note, I spy people food on the horizon."

Spike looked back as Marissa arrived with three small baskets filled with greasy food. "Okay," she said, putting the food down. "One blooming onion for each of you, and an order of mozzarella sticks for me. And since this place is too good for trays, I'll be right back with the drinks." Seeing no movement from either of them as she moved back, she mentioned, "Oh please, don't get up. I'm fine."

"Women's liberation," Spike informed her as he began picking his blooming onion apart. "You take the good with the bad, love." As Marissa rolled her eyes and went back to the counter, Spike remarked around a mouthful of fried onion, "They made these so much better at the Bronze."

"Too bad it's been disintegrated along with the rest of Sunnydale," Xander responded.

Reaching out and snatching one of Marissa's mozzarella sticks, Spike added, "But their cheese sticks are more than just halfway decent, at least." As Xander reached over and grabbed one himself, Spike swallowed his food and mentioned, "By the way, what's with the change of heart?"

"About what?" Xander asked before biting into a mozzarella stick. "Oh wow, these _are_ good."

"Told you," Spike said. "About the pet names for your cousin. On the street you yelled at me for calling her 'love' and 'pet,' and I've called her both since we've sat down and you didn't bat an eye. Or rather, bat your eye, since you only have… never mind."

"You'd be surprised how many eye metaphors there are in this language, none of which get realized until after you've gone and gotten your eye poked out." As Marissa came back and placed the drinks on the table, Xander shrugged and said, "I probably said a lot of things when we were outside. I was kinda trying to wrap my mind around the fact that you were back from the dead."

"Whoa," Marissa stated as she sat down. "You… died?"

"Five years ago… and then some," Spike told her.

"See," Xander mentioned, "he's technically the reason that Sunnydale's nothing but a hole in the ground. He got turned to dust along with the rest of the town but then… uh… actually, I don't know but then."

"But then magic," Spike replied. "As so often is the case. I came back as a ghostie at first. Not so much fun."

"I'm missing mozzarella sticks," Marissa declared.

"I'm missing my change," Xander shot back. When Marissa put three nickels and two pennies on the table, Xander cried out, "That's either a blatant lie or highway robbery!"

"Or inflation," Marissa said. To Spike, she asked, "So why'd you destroy Sunnydale?"

"It wasn't me," Spike answered. "The amulet I was wearing… I didn't know what it would do. All I knew was that it had to be worn by a 'champion.'"

"I normally hate giving credit where credit is due to Spike," Xander interrupted, "but he _did_ die saving the world."

"And he was brought back?" Marissa asked.

"Yeah," Xander answered.

"I thought that was Buffy."

"Different time," Spike replied. "We've all had our turn at saving the world. Even One-Eyed Joe managed it once, all by himself, too."

"You saved the world?" Marissa asked Xander, surprised. "When and how?"

"About a year before Sunnydale was destroyed," Xander replied. "See, Willow was about to destroy the world-"

"Willow? Willow Rosenberg?"

"Yeah, well, she went kinda nuts after her girlfriend got killed."

"Girl… Willow's a lesbian? I thought the two of you were…."

"Oh, no. Not officially, anyway. Not for any decent length of time. Unless you count kindergarten."

"Kindergarten?" Spike asked. "How you can sit there and say that with a straight face is beyond me."

"Anyway, how was Willow going to destroy the world?" Marissa asked.

"Magic," Xander replied.

"What, like bippidy-boppedy-boo magic?"

"I think the term they use most often is, 'So mote it be,'" Spike mentioned.

"Oh you haven't seen her," Xander gushed. "She doesn't even need words anymore. She can fly and absorb energy and teleport… all without going evil."

"Fair play to Red," Spike complimented, impressed.

"Waaaiiit a minute," Marissa broke in. "Willow Rosenberg's a witch?"

"Did you miss that memo?" Xander asked.

"And your friend Buffy is the original Slayer?"

"Yeah."

"And Anya was a demon?"

"Uh-huh."

Astonished, Marissa asked, "Where the hell did you meet these people?"

"Sunnydale. Next question, please."

Looking to Spike, she pointed at him and asked, "So what is he, like some kind of warlock or sorcerer or something? Is that how he was brought back to life?"

"You're not as perceptive as I had thought, then," Spike told her. "I thought I had dropped enough hints over the course of the night. Necks, pointy sticks, biting… although I suppose those things _could_ just make me a fetishist."

During this conversation, Marissa was taking everything with a sort of humor. She _had_ to look at this with humor, or else talking about people being brought back from the dead and preventing the world from utter destruction on more than one occasion would drive a person crazy. But as realization dawned on her face, the humor seeped out and was replaced with horror. Spike shot Xander a look when he realized that she wasn't going to take kindly to this. Turning to look at her cousin, she asked, "You're friends with a _vampire_?"

Opening and closing his mouth several times before responding, Xander grinned awkwardly. "'_Friend_' is such a strong word. I mean, besides, he's a _good_ vampire." After a moment, he choked, "Oh man, I can't believe I just said that."

"You did, and she's my witness," Spike told him, pointing at the shocked girl.

"And you _lived _with him?" Marissa asked Xander.

"Shared living quarters for a brief period of time," Xander modified. "Always at the behest of the Buffster, since _she_ was Spike's… friend."

"Spike's… friend?"

Looking at Spike now, Xander murmured, "Oh _wow_, is this getting awkward."

"Wait, I thought… I mean…" Marissa looked up at Spike and defensively held up a hand. "I mean, no offense, but…. I always thought vampire Slayers slay vampires. I didn't think vampire Slayers… became _friends_ with vampires and oh my _God_ what am I doing sitting down to eat with a vampire?!"

"If you're going to have a nervous breakdown," Spike said, "would you mind leaving your cheese sticks behind?"

"Here's a word of advice, Spike," Xander said. "If there's ever a prize given out for sensitivity, don't be too bummed if you don't even get an honorable mention."

"What?" Spike asked. "It was a simple question. If she's on her way out, I just wanted to know if she could be bothered to leave her food behind. I haven't eaten all night."

"Oh my God!" Marissa whispered harshly, clinging to Xander. "Xander, please take me home! Now!"

"Okay, okay," he told her soothingly as he got up. Looking to Spike, he said, "I'm staying with my parents until Thursday. The place is listed in the phone book under Tony Harris. That's where you can find me if you get your hands on more ideas concerning our ghost problem. Since there's food and alcohol here, I'm assuming this is the most likely bet if I want to track you down?"

"I'm here most nights," Spike agreed. "Are you going to leave your blooming onion?"

"Yes, fine, take the blooming onion!" Xander snapped.

As Xander pulled Marissa away, Spike overheard her saying, "God, Xander, you'd let him into your _house_?" Spike looked down. Just a few moments ago, she had been fascinated by the tale of how he had cheated death and saved the world. But now… well, now he was just another one of the monsters, no different from the thing that attacked her before he arrived on the scene.

Reaching into his inner jacket pocket, he got out his flask and tipped a generous amount of amber liquid into his Coke.

* * *

The problem with living in Woodridge was that there was nowhere else to go other than _Neon_.

As she waited for her physics paper to finish printing out, Marissa glanced at the time. It was a little past five in the evening. After her first direct vampire incident in six years the night before, she found that she was hesitant to be out of the house past sunset. She had called Xander, but his mother told her that he was out visiting some relatives in Holbrook and wasn't expected back until much later. As for staying home… that was never exactly an option

And so it was with a sense of dread that she put her schoolwork away and got dressed to go out. She almost considered putting on a relatively low-cut tank top beneath her jacket, but then remembered that Spike might be there. The thought of her pale yellow shirt being stained with blood was enough to make her rip it off and put on a thin black turtleneck. With her black jacket and black jeans, she looked like she was ready to go rob a bank.

It was stifling outside, but she didn't dare tug at the neck of her sweater or push her shoulder-length wavy hair into a ponytail. Xander had called Spike a "good" vampire. Do those things really exist? Sure. So do hobbits and unicorns.

Lost in her own thoughts, Marissa was surprised to suddenly find herself standing outside of _Neon_. The sky was starting to go overcast even though it was only five-thirty. It wouldn't be long before the vamps started walking the earth. Because let's face it: if she was attacked by a vampire moments before bumping into an old vampiric "friend" of Xander's, then there had to be more bloodsuckers in the neighborhood, right? _And they could all just snatch you away while you're standing here wondering what to do next_, she realized.

At that thought, she rushed inside. Since it was early on a Sunday evening, the club was quiet and still, with only a handful of patrons. The good news was that she knew none of them could be vampires, since the sun was still up. The bad news? One of the patrons was Robbie Wilson.

He was talking to two girls that she recognized from the campus, though she couldn't think of their names. Regardless, watching your ex having a good time with more than one member of the opposite sex less than twenty-four hours after breaking up with you was a less than enjoyable experience. She didn't think that he should be banned from having a good time, but he should at least have the decency not to do it in public.

Seeing Robbie turn his head in her direction, Marissa quickly turned away and walked towards the row of arcade games. He was going to follow her, she knew. He was going to walk over to her and… gloat? Ask how she's doing? She didn't know, but she knew that when she looked for his reflection on the gaming screen, she would see-

-him talking to the two girls. Again.

Recognizing that she hadn't changed since junior high, Marissa reached into her messenger bag and scooped out some spare change. She'd play video games. It was distracting… but not so distracting that she wouldn't be able to see Robbie's reflection every so often to see if he was looking.

_It's not jealousy_, she tried to convince herself as she inserted a quarter into the game slot. _I just want to talk with him. He's been weird lately, and if we just air it out we can at least stay friends. I just need to catch him when he's not talking to a handful of other people. The fact that these "other people" happen to be girls with bodies more curvaceous than… than something really curvaceous has nothing to do with anything._

She was surprised to find that she actually did manage to believe in her own words. She played the ancient _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ arcade game and glanced up towards Robbie between the various levels. When she managed to beat the game, she headed to the next one, a knockoff variation of Nintendo's _Duck Hunt _that attempted to introduce a plot for leveling up. She could still see Robbie if she really tried, but her attempts at striking down the flitting fowl took up most of her attention. She stayed at that game for a long, long time, thinking about nothing else but gunning down pixilated poultry.

After what could have been hours, for all she knew, Marissa reached into the compartment in her bag where she kept her video game change. Finding it empty, she uttered a quiet, "Aw _man_." She had been only fifteen hundred points away from a high score. With another continuation, it would have been perfectly doable.

She was surprised to see an outstretched hand offer her a quarter from behind her. Looking back at the screen counting down the seconds until she could continue her game, she could see no one's reflection. Even before he spoke, Marissa knew that the person with the cracked black nail polish would have an English dialect. "I'd hate to see you break a winning streak, love."

Marissa hunched her shoulders, instinctively giving Spike less access to her neck. It seemed as though he picked up on her feelings quickly enough, since he stepped out from behind her and moved into her line of sight. "Give me some credit, will you? I was actually admiring your marksmanship, not staking claim to a prize. If you're out of ammo, I'm offering you some."

"No," Marissa told him, backing away from the game and defensively putting her hands up once again. "No, no thank you. I'm fine. I was just…. How long were you standing behind me?"

He seemed to consider the question before stating, "Long enough to see you glancing up past me every so often to get a gander at that chump you fancy. I know I told you to keep an eye on him, but that almost seems a little too conspicuous."

"A little too conspicuous?" Marissa asked, crossing her arms over her chest in an effort to diminish her surface area in every way possible. "Hi, _you_ were the one who was standing right behind me and watching me watch someone else. How do you think that looked to the others, with you practically attached to my backside?"

"I almost gave you a loving pat," Spike informed her with a smile, "but I didn't know whether or not you were aiming on making the boy jealous. If you are, I'm sure we can arrange something."

"If my cousin were here, you wouldn't be so glib!" Marissa exclaimed.

"Where _is_ Private Patch, anyhow?" Spike inquired, putting his quarter back in his pocket. "I gave him a ring at the homestead and I couldn't get a hold of him. He didn't make mention of having a social life, so I assume something terrible happened to him and I get to play with the remaining pieces."

"You're disgusting," Marissa told him.

"Up until a few years ago, I was a soulless killer that got his giggles from disemboweling the weak and puncturing the vital organs of the pious," Spike replied. "Over a century of that, and _your_ sense of humor would fall into the realm of the macabre, too. Would you happen to know where I could find your relation or not?"

"He's out," Marissa replied. "Out of town."

"He told me he'd be here for a few days."

"He'll be back," Marissa clarified. "He's just out right now. And _seriously_, can you not ever stand behind me for any length of time without at least tapping me on the shoulder or something? I'm not going to have an easy time thinking you're one of the good guys if you-"

"Ex-squeeze, one o'clock," Spike interrupted. "We can improvise a passionate affair in ten seconds, if you're game." Forgetting about the possibility of Spike clamping down on her neck, Marissa straightened up and was about to turn around, but Spike's hand snaked out and grabbed her elbow. "Wrong move, pet," he whispered to her. "It'd be unwise to do anything brash. Trust me."

"How do you expect me to trust you?" Marissa countered.

"Hey Marissa," Robbie said from behind her. "What's going on?"

Though his voice was lighthearted enough, there was the faintest trace of suspicion behind it. Spike watched as the younger man gave him a guarded look while Marissa whirled around to face him. "Robbie! Hi! Um, nothing much. What's going on with you?"

"I'm talking about this guy," Robbie explained, tilting his head towards Spike. "It looked like he was bugging you, and he didn't exactly make a favorable impression on me yesterday, either."

"Oh, like I've got a reason to try and impress you, yeah?" Spike retorted. "I asked some questions, and the Human Brick here gets indignant and threatens to-"

"You're not much of a people person, are you?" Marissa asked, looking at him over her shoulder. To Robbie, she said, "It's fine. He's just… a friend of the family. Kinda."

"Former arch nemesis of the family," Spike brought up. "Working my way up to Ambivalent Acquaintance. If I happen to knock off a few of the family enemies, I might eventually earn the title of Associate, and the promotions work from there. You wouldn't happen to know any enemies of the Harris family, would you?"

"I swear to whichever God exists," Marissa hissed, "if you don't shut up and disappear, I'm going to sic Xander on you so fast you won't even have _time_ to turn to dust."

"Xander, was that your cousin's name?" Robbie asked. "Brit Boy asked me last night, couldn't remember for the life of me. I thought it started with an A. If he's giving you trouble, I could get Louis from security and-"

"No!" Marissa blurted out. "No, security bad. We don't want security. Security might get hurt."

Surprised, Robbie looked at Spike and asked, "He'd hurt a security officer?"

"Only if it were a challenge," Spike replied with a smirk. "But don't mind me. I just came to ask the lady after her big bad cousin that she's going to call to beat me up." To Marissa, he said, "I'm going to get a few drinks in me. Give me a shout if you see the loser come by, would you, love?"

After the stranger walked away, Robbie looked down at Marissa. "'Love?'"

"Term of endearment," she answered.

"Yeah, I know," Robbie told her. "He just didn't come off as the endearing type. Must be some old-fashioned English manners that he can't get rid of or something."

"A few _centuries_ old, probably," Marissa muttered. When Robbie gave her a quizzical glance, she shook her head. "Nothing. Forget it." They stood there staring at one another in silence. At last, she sighed, "Look, Robbie, I'm noticing you actually walked over here to talk to me, even if it _was_ just because you thought some sniveling little Englishman was harassing me. Am I safe to assume that you don't… you don't hate me? I mean, I'm not asking for anything else, just-"

"Marissa," he replied. "I _don't_ hate you. This was never about hate. Yeah, I said some really harsh things last night. I know that, and I'm sorry. But sometimes, the easiest way to not break a person's heart is to act like a gigantic ass."

Looking at him for a moment, she asked, "What's going on with you that you'd think you'd break my heart?" Seeing him look down, Marissa quickly added, "I mean, the whole 'vampire' comment I made was way out of line, but after what I saw in Sunnydale, you can't blame me for thinking that a complete change in someone's personality followed by them 'breaking ties' from people sounds just a little-"

"I know what it sounds like, okay?" Robbie broke in, glowering down at her. Marissa immediately shut her mouth. Though Robbie could be a little sharp, she had never had reason to worry that he may use his eight-inch height advantage against her. Seeing his light brown eyes practically flashing fire from his normally-placid face, she was suddenly very aware of how easily he could break her like a twig, whether or not she really _was_ putting on weight. "It sounds like the type of thing you say when you're getting ready to disappear without a trace. The kind of thing you say before you shoot up a school and off yourself afterwards."

"Robbie, please," Marissa begged quietly. "I had a friend at Virginia Tech, you know that-"

"Then you should know what life is like," Robbie went on, trying unsuccessfully to be mindful of his voice. "Life isn't about being eternally scarred over one bad thing that happened to you. You can visit your traumas once in a while and quiver over vampires; it was actually kind of _cute_ when we started dating. But I just woke up and opened my eyes. Life's about riding with the changes. _You _can't do that. And I don't think you ever will. So your 'vampire comment,' like you called it? Yeah, I thought it was out of line. But after the past four months, it's what I've come to expect from you. So you can look at this as-"

"I'm looking at this as an encore performance of you acting like a gigantic ass," came Spike's voice from behind the pair. Marissa and Robbie looked up, neither of them having seen him approach with what looked like a scotch in his hand. "If that's the case, then you must be right anxious not to break her heart. So if you don't want to do it, why don't you stop pratting about and get the hell out of town?"

Looking at Marissa, Robbie asked, "What the hell is this? Your self-appointed bodyguard?"

"Much as I wouldn't mind guarding her body," Spike replied, "I don't give a piss about her welfare in the least. I just had it figured that you were a halfway decent type, realizing something dark about yourself and buggering off before someone got hurt."

"Maybe you should take your own advice," Marissa told him disdainfully.

"What would you know about darkness?" Robbie muttered.

With a small smile, Spike answered, "More than you, that much I know. And I've done me some thinking after I had a few lonely drinks last night. I had thought that you only _just_ became a new man, which accounted for you scrambling away from anything and everything that meant something to you. But then, how would you know exactly what was to come unless it had already happened?" Spike's smile widened as he could almost _taste_ the suspicion and fear radiating off of the boy. Robbie knew that Spike knew. And now he was going to go crazy trying to figure out how he knew. Spike liked that idea.

"Second time in two nights that two guys have a conversation that goes way over my head," Marissa remarked, watching the two of them with growing concern. Looking at Spike, she concluded, "And I've noticed that in both cases, you're the one that turns my completely normal talk with someone into a coded message."

"Completely normal?" Spike asked, still looking at Robbie. "I don't think so. According to my gut, it's been a while since things have been completely normal on the home front for dear old Robert. Tell me, pet, how long were you and Hercules here dating before he politely asked you to shove off?"

Glancing at Robbie once again, Marissa answered, "Four months. Almost five."

"Practically a one night stand in the grand scheme of things," Spike mused. "But considering your age, that takes up a good chunk of your adult life. So I figure you thought you knew him quite well, yeah? Did he start going strange on you at any point in the relationship?"

"Marissa, what's this guy trying to prove?" Robbie questioned heatedly.

"Say, a month ago or so?" Spike pressed on.

Marissa opened her mouth slightly in surprise, seeing Robbie's cheeks flush in what could have been either anger or embarrassment. She still had no clue what Spike was getting at, but it was clear that he knew more about her ex than she did. "Rob? Robbie, what-"

"You'd better not say it," Robbie told Spike in a low rumble. "I don't know how you know, but trust me when I say that you don't want to go down this road."

"I thought I didn't," Spike agreed. "Like I said, I don't give a piss whether the pup gets hurt or not, and the same can be said for pretty much the rest of this pisshole of a town. But I don't much like the idea of somebody knowing full well that there's something he needs to do, and instead decides to try to make a thoroughly unnecessary scene by taking it out on somebody who's had to put up with enough of his crap. You've two days to disappear. So why don't you be a man while you've still got enough of that in you and sod off?"

Marissa cried out as Robbie lunged towards Spike, meaning to push him backwards. Anticipating the move, Spike easily dodged it and grabbed for Robbie's throat. In a single swift movement, he slammed the younger man down against the nearest table, making the couple sitting there jump out of their seats and join the rest of _Neon_'s patronage in gaping at the spectacle.

"Spike, stop it!" Marissa called.

"If you're worried, why not call Louis from security?" Spike questioned with amusement.

"I'll do worse than that," Marissa threatened. "I'll call Xander. He'll get a Slayer on your ass so fast that-"

"Word to the wise, pet," Spike told her. "The entire world isn't as enamored with Slayers as you'd like to believe, nor do some of us quake in fear at the mention of your cousin. You're attracting undue attention, so you'd do well to call whoever it is you're going to call, since you should know better than to think you can stop me from snapping Junior's neck."

Not knowing what else to do, Marissa backed away and searched for her cell phone within her bag. "I swear," she uttered, "if I come back from talking to Xander and you've hurt him…."

"You'll do what, pet?"

"I'll rip out your heart and feed it to my dog, presuming you have one."

Surprised, Spike spared Marissa a glance. "My, my. So there _is_ a grisly side to you. There's hope for you yet." He watched as she rushed off and took out her mobile, then turned his attention to the writhing boy he had pinned down.

"Oh stop your whining, will you?" Spike muttered. Finishing his drink, he put the glass on the table besides Robbie's head. "I'm not hurting you. Not yet, anyway. And if I am, you're weaker than the steroids make you seem." Lowering his voice and leaning in towards him, he continued, "I know that you're prone to heated outbursts at this stage in the game, but you'd do well to give up the hope of defeating your demons and just skip town. I've the distinct impression that bad things will be going down, and I'll be in a very bad mood for most of the coming days, if not weeks, if not months, and so on and so forth. So if I happen to spy you pissing about the neighborhood and doing things you shouldn't be doing, I'll feel right vindicated in giving you a beating."

"She can't know," Robbie wheezed, trying to pry the hand from his throat. "Please… I don't know who you are, but she can't know."

Raising an eyebrow, Spike asked, "The pup?"

"I don't… I'm not planning on leaving town," Robbie continued. "I just couldn't stay with her. I tried, but I knew that she'd find out. And if she did…. I can't let that happen. She'll never talk to me again. She'll never look at me. She might even try to kill me. I don't know. I don't know what she'd do. I don't want to know what she'll think of me if she finds out what I am."

Spike began to realize what was going on. "I see what this is. You're selfless enough to end your relationship, but you're too selfish to give her up completely." Closing his eyes, Robbie nodded. With a laugh, Spike released him, leaving the boy to roll onto his side into a coughing fit. "What a corker! And here I thought you were just a contemptible ass. Turns out that you're really a contemptible ass in love! You _do_ realize that makes you infinitely more dangerous, don't you?"

"Damn right I'm dangerous," Robbie remarked, getting off the table and shooting Spike a smoldering glare. "I'm dangerous and I'm powerful, so it'd be stupid of you to go off and tell Marissa anything that could end up hurting her. You might not care if she gets hurt, but if she does, _you'll_ be the one hurting."

"Your testosterone levels are embarrassing," Spike remarked. "I may have been willing to let you get up, but you've already forgotten how easy it was for me to make you go down in the first place. And while I'll give you points for putting up the illusion of going postal, I've got a very distinct advantage over you."

"Yeah?" Robbie scoffed. "And what's that?"

With a fairly patient smile, Spike replied, "_My_ strength isn't dependent on the full moon."

Robbie narrowed his eyes at him. "So you really _do_ know. I thought you were bluffing at first, but since you almost broke my back, I figured there was maybe something more to you." He glanced around the club. Seeing that most of the customers had calmed down and were now purposely avoiding his eyes, he looked back to Spike. "You're not like me," he said lowly. "And if you were a vampire, Marissa wouldn't be caught dead in the same room as you. So what is it? You some kind of demon?"

"We're all demons now, Robert," Spike answered, throwing into his voice something that sounded almost like compassion. Almost, but not quite. "Only thing that changes is how we manifest that demony part inside of us. As for the pup, it's a good thing she's not dead, then, is it?"

Robbie's eyes widened. "You mean you're a…? Does she know?"

"I only lie when it benefits me," Spike replied. "Or when it seems like fun."

"And she hasn't killed you?"

"That's what I'm led to believe, unless this is a craptastic excuse for a hell dimension."

"Huh," Robbie murmured, dumbfounded. Brushing himself off, he sat down on a nearby chair and asked, "I'm assuming you're using some kind of mind trick or something to keep her from flipping out. Don't you guys have some kind of telepathic abilities?"

"I'm a vampire, not a bloody Jedi," Spike replied disdainfully , sitting opposite him. "Trouble with your generation is that you're so caught up on that Dracula poofter that you think we're all sparkly pretty shinies covered in lace. At any rate, what's the deal with the Harris girl and vampires? She was getting on with me well enough until that little tidbit came up."

"Probably because vampires eat people," Robbie told him sarcastically.

"Not always," Spike responded. "The one that went after her last night didn't bite anything but the dust."

"Last night?" Robbie's face went serious. "Y-… you're kidding, right? There's no way Marissa could've been chased by a vampire and not be a mess right now."

"Hence my question," Spike said. "What is it about the bloodsuckers that've got her bothered? Bad childhood experience? Lost a friend?" When Robbie didn't answer, Spike became just a little frustrated. "Well, come on! You can't tell me you got in the girl's pants and you don't know why she gets the sweats at the mention of the 'v' word."

"That's none of your business!"

"What? Why she's afraid, or whether or not you got into her pants?"

Robbie was livid once again, but managed to contain it and stood up. "Why on Earth did I just sit at a table and think I could have a civil conversation with you? I saw _Underworld_; we're supposed to be sworn enemies because of an ancient blood feud-"

"Shut your stupid gob before I shut it for you!" Spike cried out, a little amazed that there were actually still people _that_ dim in the world. "Are you really making assumptions about me based on some flick about a bunch of pale goths in tight leather?" Robbie said nothing, but gave Spike an evaluating look. Rolling his eyes, Spike said, "It's not my fault that I don't go for paisley, all right? And as for sunning myself, I'll give that a go as soon as you willingly take a silver bullet."

While it seemed as though he wanted to leave, Robbie held his ground. It looked to Spike as though the boy was resisting the urge to chew on his lower lip, as though he felt nervous about something. Finally Robbie asked, "So it's true, then? The whole silver bit?"

"Natch," Spike answered. "What, you were turned over a month ago and still have no clue what'll kill you?"

Lowering his voice, Robbie sat back down and breathed, "Well, sorry, but werewolves don't exactly do the whole 'sire' bit that you guys do. I didn't have somebody holding my hand to tell me what was true and what was Hollywood."

"My sire was off her trolley and I'll appreciate it if you never make me think of such things again," Spike told him, putting an appropriate amount of coldness in his voice. It worked well enough to make Robbie arch away from him, leaving Spike satisfied. "Anyway, you're going about this all wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you're no good isolated," Spike replied. "You're keeping some distant relationships from what I could see with you and those bits earlier, but you're breaking up with your main girl and I haven't even seen you give a nod to any blokes walking about, telling me that neither you nor the pup had much in the friend department. You think that backing away from the only people you mesh with is gonna save 'em? Don't back up; plough right out of the town, the state, the country, find yourself some backwoods corner of the world and either end it yourself or let the demon pass. Because all you're doing right now, sitting around and pretending life's normal, is putting people like Marissa Harris at risk. You stay here without having somebody to lock you up when the dog comes out, and all you're going to accomplish is increasing the probability of waking up with the taste of her entrails on your lips."

"Please," Robbie murmured with a flinch. "That's just… no. No, I don't want to do that. But are you telling me that I can't allow myself to be with people at _all_? That I've spent the past twenty-two years trying to make something out of myself for nothing? Why should I condemn myself to isolation just because I go haywire three days out of the month?"

"You make it sound like women's trouble," Spike remarked. "It's not just about mood swings and cramps; it's about the possibility of literally biting someone's head off."

"I don't see how that makes it much different from PMS, then," Robbie commented with a bitter laugh.

A corner of Spike's mouth arched upwards in a half-smile. "Congratulations. I actually found that mildly entertaining. A few more cracks like that, and I might be persuaded not to slam you against anymore tables. Walls are always an option, though."

"What the hell?" Spike and Robbie both turned at the sound of Marissa's voice. Her hand was in her bag, presumably because she had just put her phone away, and she was staring at the two men incredulously. "I went off to get help, and I come back to see that the two of you are practically sharing tea and crumpets?"

"A beer and a blooming onion would be more like it," Spike remarked.

"I could go for that," Robbie agreed.

"Flip you for the tab?" Spike challenged.

"I am _so_ sick of this déjà vu!" Marissa exclaimed, a hand on her forehead as she railed from disbelief. "First it looked like Xander was ready to ram a fist through your mouth, then the two of you were sharing my mozzarella sticks and talking about the good old days. And now Robbie… ugh, just _how_ do you do that?"

"By not being a people person," Spike responded wryly, taking out the quarter he had offered Marissa earlier. "When I act like an ass, it makes it all the more surprising when I show a smidge of heart. Which, by the way, I do indeed have. It just doesn't beat. Call it."

As he flicked the quarter in the air and Robbie chose heads, Marissa crossed her arms over her chest and looked down. "Right," she muttered. "And I had a dog to feed it to. It's just been dead for eight years."

Spike shot Marissa a quick glance before revealing the coin. Tails. "Maybe the pup's my good luck charm," he smiled as Robbie fished several bills from his pocket. "Second free meal I get because of her in as many nights."

"A blooming onion's no meal," Robbie stated. "Three thousand calories or no, that's just a snack that takes the quickest route down Heart Attack Alley. But then, I don't think you'd have to worry about that, since you're already dead and all, huh?"

"Oh God, you know?" Marissa whispered.

"Yeah," Robbie replied quietly as he rose to his feet. "It's only a fair exchange of information."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. What do you want?"

Reaching for Robbie's money, she told him, "I'll get it. Leave the two of you alone here to talk."

"What? No, I don't mind going-"

"Open your eyes, mate," Spike said, his eyes downcast as he played with his empty glass from before. "She doesn't much care if you and I become best buddies. Pup just doesn't want to be left alone with me." Raising his eyes to meet hers, he coyly asked, "Isn't that right, pet?"

Marissa didn't answer. Instead, she merely returned Spike's look with a dull one of her own before taking Robbie's money from his hand. Already backing away, she asked, "A blooming onion and a beer each, right?"

"They won't sell you beer," Robbie told her.

"I'll _make _them sell it to me."

Robbie watched as Marissa turned and walked away from them. Sitting back down, he wondered if Spike had personally done anything wrong or if it was simply a remnant from her past that made her act that way. Granted, Spike was more than a little prone to violence and being a sarcastic creep, but… there was something about him. Maybe it was only because they were both demons of a sort; they had some kind of strange kinship. He hoped that kinship wouldn't be reason enough to make Marissa abandon him forever.

"By God, you're a wreck!"

Robbie turned to look at Spike at his amused exclamation. "I thought_ I_ was love's bitch once upon a time, but you… something funny's going on with you. You could hardly stand to tear your eyes away from her. And even after all that rot about breaking up and the yelling and insulting and big to-do, you need to clench your hands into fists to keep from touching her."

"You damned vampires and your damned high perception," Robbie muttered.

"High perception my ass. I'm just not blind, deaf, and dumb." Watching Robbie run a hand through his chestnut-colored hair as he looked down, Spike sighed heavily and leaned back in his seat. "All right, let's have it."

"Have what?"

"The story," Spike replied. "'Once upon a time I was a big, strong, handsome boy living in Suburbia and I fell in love with the most perfect woman in all of creation, and then something happened that buggered it all up.' I can tell just by looking at you're that you're itching for a moment of self pity, so since I've nothing better to do while waiting for my food, pass it on. Maybe I'll learn something useful."

"Useful about what?"

"About why Woodridge is going to Hell."

"What, are you a televangelist vampire?"

"You've got a lot to learn about the demon culture you've inherited if you didn't know I meant that quite literally."

After a long, considering look, Robbie asked, "Are we all going to die?"

"When aren't we?"

"Is that why you wanted me out of town?"

Spike uttered a loud, amused laugh. "Don't be ridiculous. I don't give a rat's behind about whether you live or die. I just wanted us to be on the level. If you stick around here, you should look for someone to keep you locked up during the full moon. Because if your furry alter ego gets in the way of the mess that's to come, I'm not going to think twice about putting you to sleep before you get in my way. I don't like killing humans, but weres are a nice gray area."

"You don't… what?" Robbie asked, astounded. "You don't kill humans? But don't you kinda have that whole 'eternal life on the condition that you sustain it with the blood of the innocents' thing going on?"

"There are other avenues," Spike replied. "Pig's blood, for instance. Not my favorite, but it does the job."

"Pig's blood?" Robbie echoed. "Um… not that I'm at all complaining, but wouldn't it be a whole lot easier to just, y'know, slash open somebody's throat and drink from there? If nothing else, it's gotta be more cost effective, right?"

"If I really wanted to, I could whore myself out like other vamps do and get _paid_ for drinking," Spike answered somewhat sourly. "Knew a bloke that went to a house of ill repute like that. It's not my scene. More so because once you get a taste of human blood, the thirst just gets stronger. Like your first beer after going on the wagon."

"There lies my confusion," Robbie told him. "_Why_ are you so concerned about not drinking from humans?"

Spike remained silent for a long while. He could go over the story. Explain that he now had a soul, after undergoing several hours of brutal trials to regain it. Could explain _why_ he chose to get his soul back, and go on to claim that he understands Robbie's plight, being a human soul sharing a body with a potential killer. But the boy might choose to draw enough parallels between their respective predicaments to consider themselves friends. Spike didn't want to be friends. So Robbie had told one halfway decent sexist joke; if that was all it took to build camaraderie, Spike may as well give up all of his self-respect and call Xander his best mate.

"Humans leave a funny taste in my mouth," he responded, truthfully enough. They did. They left him wanting more. And that left him with shame. Shame was not exactly the most pleasant spice for the taste buds.

He glanced up as Marissa approached with two beers. So she really _did_ manage to make them sell her beer. And yet she didn't take advantage of the situation and buy one for herself. A non-drinker. Fan-bloody-tastic. "The food will be ready in a couple of minutes," she told them, putting the beers down. Sliding the change over towards Robbie, she dryly asked, "Bonding?"

"We're almost brothers," Robbie smirked sarcastically.

"A shame I prefer being an only child," Spike retorted.

As Marissa turned to head back towards the bar, Robbie reached out and took hold of her wrist. "Hey," he said gently, noticing her tensing up. "Why don't you stick around? They'll let you know when the food's ready."

"What happened to acting like a gigantic ass?" Marissa questioned.

"… we can go back to that some other time."

With a sharp laugh, Marissa countered, "You mean you're not going to stick to your guns? Out of line, but after the past four months, that's what I've come to expect from you." With that, she pulled away from him and went back to the bar, leaving Robbie to look at her dumbly.

With a relishing chuckle, Spike proclaimed, "Oh precious! This is better than watching _Passions_!"

Though Robbie shot him a dirty look, there was no real anger behind it. Wrapping a hand around his beer bottle, he rhetorically asked, "She _does_ know, right? That I'm… I'm doing the right thing, in a way? It's what I wanted, for her to not care about me, but…."

"But it's hard to watch someone you care about not return the favor," Spike finished, suddenly solemn. "Especially when you know a large portion of it is your fault." As soon as Robbie met his eyes, he knew he shouldn't have said it.

"So that's it," Robbie remarked. "You fell in love with a human girl. That's why you don't drink from humans. You're still trying to prove that you're worthy of her."

"If I want to listen to this sort of trash," Spike replied, grabbing his beer, "I'll go speak to a psychiatrist. California's ripe with them. As I recall, I had asked you about your past. Stop being avoidant and tell me about the big and fuzzy that got you where you are, and do it quick. We don't want the pup overhearing, do we?" Taking a swig of beer, he hoped that Robbie wouldn't realize that one of the clearest signs of being avoidant was accusing someone else of the same crime.

With a small laugh, Robbie answered, "That's the joke of it; it wasn't a big and fuzzy so much as a small and fuzzy. When classes started up, the bookstore didn't have enough books for my psychology course, so I ended up sharing a textbook with my friend Jordy. One night I forgot that I needed the book, so I went over to his place without calling. I saw the cellar door open and knew that he practices with his band there sometimes, so I went down. And what do I see but some guy attempting to get what looked like a huge dog into a cage. The guy looks at me, and I guess I surprised him enough for the dog to get free of him. It bit him, he screamed, and then the dog came after me. It got me on the leg as I tried to head back out, and when I fell, I saw that there were suddenly_ two_ dogs prowling around. They started fighting with one another, and I used the time to get out of there. The next day, I see Jordy in class and told him what happened. He tells me, 'Oh yeah, I'm kinda a werewolf. But don't worry, I got it under control, so instead of the full moon, I turn when I'm angry or scared or something. My cousin and I got in a fight, and I guess it got out of hand, so you must've come down when he was trying to lock me in my cage.'"

Spike furrowed his brow, trying to understand. "He just… told you that he was a werewolf?"

"Yeah."

"And explained that you walked in on some guy locking him in a cage?"

"Yeah."

"And he didn't seem at all… concerned about this?"

"Well, he told me that I'd change for the three days of the full moon," Robbie explained, "and that I didn't have to worry, because his cousin was already a werewolf. He said I'd be able to talk to the cousin during the first day of the next full moon, since he usually comes back for a visit to make sure Jordy doesn't turn. He's not all too good with his 'lycanthropy discipline.'"

"Right then, that gives a new meaning to the term 'den of wolves,'" Spike brought up. "So you mean to say that you've let me rag you about going solitary when you know of at least two others of your kind in the neighborhood?"

"Being locked in a cage all night isn't exactly a barrel of laughs," Robbie explicated. "I got bitten on the second night of the full moon, so I spent the next night in Jordy's basement, listening to his God-awful music and eating Slim Jims that his mother brought down."

"His mo-? … his _mum_ is completely all right with the fact that there was suddenly a humanoid wolf in her cellar?" As Robbie nodded, Spike hit upon another thought. "Hold on… how do you remember what you did while you were in wolf form?"

With a confused expression on his face, Robbie asked, "Is that not normal?"

"That's _very_ not normal," Spike told him. "Far as I can suss out, a werewolf can't remember what he does during his transformed state anymore than he can control his actions." Noticing Robbie's silence, Spike made an annoyed sound. "For God's sake, were you able to control your actions?"

"I couldn't open most of the Slim Jims because my claws were too long," Robbie offered weakly. "I just thought that the homicidal urges would come with the next cycle. Y'know, like since I was new, the transformation didn't take right away."

"That's bollocks!" Spike declared. "Soon as you're bit, you're a werewolf. If you're bit at night during a full moon, you won't change until the next night, but once you change, you're gone. That's it. Nothing but a big, drooling, growling beast. If you even bothered eating your little processed meat sticks instead of the real thing, you certainly shouldn't have cared if they were wrapped in plastic."

He thought for a moment. This wasn't any of his concern. He wasn't in the business of assisting werewolves or idiotic college students. He was only sitting and having a drink with him and the pup to pass the time before Xander came around so they could talk about the interesting new development Spike discovered concerning the haunted cemeteries in town. But he couldn't rightfully turn a blind eye towards a trio of werewolves that actually had a certain degree of control over their transformations. At least one of them could control his actions while in wolf form, and the other two seemed to be able to control _when_ they transformed. Without sentience, werewolves were just a huge pain in the whatchamacallit. But with those kinds of abilities…. Hadn't he just mentioned something to Xander the night before about not being able to handle the current situation as a "lone wolf?"

"I'll tell you what," Spike offered. "Tuesday's the first night of the full moon, and you're going to go over there to speak to your friend's cousin. Only you won't be doing any speaking. I'm going to lock you in his cellar and watch you myself, and see what happens. And while I'm at it, I'm going to talk to this Jordy and his relation and see if I can figure what it is that makes you different from the mindless hounds that skulk about when that time of the month comes around."

"You will?" Robbie asked, surprised. "Really? Why? Why go through that to try and help me?"

"You silly sod, I'm not trying to help _you_," Spike scoffed. "A werewolf who can restrain his transformation and remain in control of himself while in wolf form is essentially a super soldier. Speed, brute strength, agility… and you even come in a pack! And we've got a Big Bad pulling some nasty metaphysical strings. If it were up to me, Woodridge can disappear into a Hellmouth and I'll probably sleep all the better for it. But a Hellmouth as big as the one I'm seeing won't stop at Woodridge; it'll take the whole world with it. And say what you want about it, I've come to like this little rock. It's got buffalo wings and pornography. A man with eternal life can fare pretty well here."

Robbie tried his best to follow what Spike was saying, but he had never even heard of a Slayer, never mind a Hellmouth. "Sorry, buddy," he said, shaking his head. "The only bit of that rant that I actually understood was the part about buffalo wings and pornography. But if it means anything, I'm with you on both scores."

At that moment, Marissa returned to the table, a basket of blooming onion for each of them. "Buffalo wings and porn? I don't want to know, do I?"

"It's a guy thing," Spike responded.

Robbie glanced over at Marissa as she zipped up her jacket. "You're not staying? How come you didn't get something to eat?"

"Because, Rob," she replied without looking at him, "it was _your_ money. And since I didn't win a coin toss or have a fair exchange of information with a vampire—whatever the hell _that_ means—I'm not entitled to it. It's not like you're my boyfriend or anything."

"Hey," Robbie remarked, offended, "that's unfair."

Putting a hand up to keep him from rising, Marissa told him, "Don't get up. Really. Wouldn't want to interrupt the bonding time. Besides, the longer you two are chatting, the less I have to worry that he's going to miraculously appear behind me. You may continue your conversation about wings and boobs."

As she turned to leave, Spike called out, "Marissa." Though she stopped, she didn't turn around. "Where's Xander? I really should get around to talking to him and see if he can get his girls to help with our ongoing dilemma."

After a moment, Marissa replied, "No idea. Got his voicemail. I already got my share of his attention for this visit. Maybe I'll have an answer for that when he comes back for his dad's funeral, if his big plans let him come back at all."

It wasn't without a certain degree of interest that Spike watched her leave _Neon_.

* * *

Marissa didn't go home after leaving Robbie and Spike behind.

Home wasn't home most weekends until about midnight, when her mother was either passed out or too drunk to notice her existence. Before then, she'd most likely be sent to the nearest 7-Eleven with a five-dollar bill to scout for some cheap wine bottles several times over the course of the night, since her mother seems to believe that she'll never actually finish the next bottle her daughter will get. Marissa thought that it was terribly ironic that she had a fake ID at her mother's insistence, so she could keep her dear mum neck deep in alcohol without bothering the woman to get up.

Shuffling through the streets with one hand still in her bag, Marissa went through the numbers in her cell phone. Most of her friends had done the smart thing and moved as far away from Woodridge as they could the moment they were college-aged. The remaining few in her phone's memory were either working night shifts or already asleep so they could wake up at the crack of dawn for work the next day. Two of them were dead, but she just didn't have the heart to take them off her list.

Marissa put her phone away, trying to figure out what she could do for the next two hours before it was safe to go home. Frightened as she was of vampires, she knew what she had to do to deal with them. A stake through the heart was already proven to work, and she was sure dismemberment and fire would probably be fair options, if she had the time to prepare for that. But she couldn't really deal with her mother in the same way.

She had missed the last showing of the only movie she wanted to see by twenty minutes. Ice cream was a viable option, but she really shouldn't be spending any money on something that's just going to force her to buy a new plus-sized wardrobe. The playground was deserted even of the late-night skateboarders who practice their ollies off the benches.

After almost thirty minutes of wandering, Marissa found herself in front of the graveyard. She had been here just six months before, at Joe Pollock's burial. He had fallen down the stairs and broken his neck while his parents were out. Very sad. He had been three months younger than Marissa.

"Story of my life," Marissa murmured, standing before the open gates of the cemetery. "Make an effort to avoid vampires and I end up stumbling upon old ghosts." She was standing with her hands in her pockets, and suddenly became aware of how very chilly it had become. Feeling a tingle down her spine, she was about to turn away… until she caught sight of something white flit between two mausoleums.

"Pity you haven't managed to avoid anything," said Spike's voice from behind her.

Whirling around, Marissa was both startled and annoyed. "Are you a vampire or a ninja?"

"I've been to China, but never Japan, unfortunately," Spike said, walking to stand besides her and observe the cemetery grounds. "It would have probably been interesting to study some super secret martial art like ancient ninjutsu before the Internet made it so that any lazy sod could just download lessons from his computer. Might be better off, since I probably would have evolved into some legendary anime character or some such nonsense."

"Are you following me?"

"Would've asked the same of you, love," Spike replied, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing his cigarettes. "Just so happens, I have business here. You're not the Harris I would have asked to see here, either."

"Xander," Marissa realized, looking back at the graveyard. More ethereal white shapes have appeared amongst the stones. "Assuming that wasn't your way of saying you'd want to see him six feet under, I'm guessing this has something to do with what the two of you were talking about yesterday?"

"Spot on," Spike said. After lighting his cigarette, he looked back towards the eerie figures in the distance. "The world of the ghosties is coming in contact with ours. First I thought that it only posed two threats, but I found a third when I came back around last night."

"Is it because we're so close to Sunnydale?" Marissa asked, her hand in her bag once again.

"I'm no expert on the matter," Spike remarked, "which is why I was hoping to talk with the Cyclops again tonight, but yeah, I think it is. Lots of bad things going on, pet. I think you'd be better off inside."

"That's only because you don't know what's inside."

Spike cocked his head and gave her a sideways glance. "A girl who gets the shakes whenever vampires are involved doesn't usually scoff when someone tells her to go home after nightfall."

"I can handle vampires," Marissa said resolutely.

"Then what's at home that you _can't_ handle?"

After a moment, Marissa tore her eyes away from the ghosts in the graveyard and angrily faced Spike. "What is this, a job interview or something?"

"Depends on what position you're interested in filling," he replied with a small smile. "As it stands, I just find you surprisingly evasive, considering how blunt your relation is."

"I'm not him."

"I've noticed; the breasts were a dead giveaway," came the response. "I doubt Patch has talked about me much, but the fact that he had a moment of weakness and actually referred to me as a good guy speaks volumes. He hates me every bit as much as I loved the Slayer, and probably _because_ I loved the Slayer. But that doesn't change the fact that I did what was right by her, and I'm still doing what's right by the world. I'm not your enemy, pet. But I won't lie and pretend I'm your friend. If you don't feel like a case of the cuddles then I won't press. But if you shouldn't stay here and you won't go home, you should figure out what you're going to—…hold on."

Spike stopped his lecture long enough to glance between the low-hanging branches of a pair of willow trees. After a moment, he absently handed his cigarette to Marissa. "Hold my cig, darling. I think I've spotted something a bit more irritating than a Casper." He was about to start off, but turned to look at her. "Stay right there. Last thing I need is for you to get hurt and Patch deciding to get revenge on me by sending out a squadron of Slayers."

Marissa watched as Spike ran off towards the trees. She thought she could catch sight of a small shadowy figure running away from him, but she didn't pay attention. Spike was gone and, assuming he didn't have any kind of super senses that would help him track her, she'd be able to go to the neighborhood 7-Eleven and get a head start on buying booze for her mother. Dropping the cigarette on the ground and snuffing it out before moving to leave, she happened to look up.

And froze in place.

Floating by an elm tree several yards away, she saw a ghostly apparition solidify itself just enough so she could make out short red hair and strangely intense blue eyes. If it weren't for the uncharacteristically mournful expression on his face and the sharp, unnatural angle of his neck, she would have thought he was still alive. "Joe? Joe Pollock?"

Her former classmate watched her as she slowly made her way towards him. Spike had said to stay put, but these were ghosts. Not vampires or demons or anything. They were the spirits of people who, for some reason, couldn't rest. Maybe Joe had something that he needed to say, something that-

She let out a small cry as the ghost suddenly flew towards her. She stopped in her tracks and shuddered at the icy feel of him passing through her. Somehow, it felt as though he had slowed down as he phased through, as though he was having some difficulty passing through completely. _Oh my God, what if he's trying to get inside me? What if he's going to posses me? What-_

But he made it through, and Marissa fell backwards as though pushed back. As she fell to the ground, the night faded away and was replaced by an unfamiliar landscape. Wallpaper. Peach wallpaper. And instead of falling onto the grass and feeling the leaves crackle beneath her, she fell onto polished floorboards.

_"You're worthless! You're nothing but a waste of space, you disrespectful bastard!"_

Who was that? Who was yelling? She didn't know, and yet Marissa felt herself cry out, _"Look who's talking, you abusive asshole!"_ That voice… it wasn't hers. But she recognized it. It was a corrupted version of the quiet, shy voice she'd hear behind her in her freshman year literature class. It was Joe Pollock's voice, and as she looked up, she realized that it was yelling up at his father.

_"You don't know abuse. Not yet." _With that, Marissa/Joe received a hard kick in the ribs and cried out. She tried to close her eyes, but Marissa suddenly knew that Joe hadn't. Joe had kept them open, because he was surprised when he felt the floor fall from beneath him. He hadn't known that he was that close to the stairs. He had only realized it seconds before his face smacked against one carpeted step. The last thing he had heard was the crack of his own neck.

Marissa hadn't realized that she had been shrieking until she suddenly felt as though her chest may explode if she didn't stop to breathe. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her hands thrown over her head, blocking her ears. She didn't know how long she had been like that by the time Spike returned and fell to his knees besides her, but she didn't stop even after she felt his presence.

"Marissa," Spike called. "Marissa, it's not real! Look at me, Marissa, it isn't real!" As she slowly quieted down due to lack of oxygen, Spike could hear the low, deep chuckling coming from the ghost who had attacked her.

"Laugh it up, dead boy," Spike warned, rising to his feet. "I hope you and your mates enjoy yourselves while you're here, because the welcome mat's going to be pulled soon enough. But let me tell you, there'll be none of this mucking about with anybody that I associate with, you hear me?"

In a voice that Marissa wouldn't have recognized even if she hadn't been hysterical, the spirit asked, "Really? And what'll you do to us if we don't listen? Kill us?"

"No," Spike countered. "I'll bring you back to life." The ghost tilted its head and offered Spike a curious glance, and Spike hoped that it wouldn't be able to tell that he was partially bluffing. "What? You think I won't? I've done it before. A friend lost her mum and I tried to help bring her back. From what I could tell, though, she came back wrong. You want to give up your freedom and become a mortal with a drooling problem, that's _your_ business."

For a long time, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the spirit faded away from view. Spike figured that he had bluffed well enough to keep the pup from trouble if she was ever stupid enough to come back to the cemetery at night without any supervision. Glancing down, he saw that Marissa had raised herself to her hands and knees and was looking at the spot where the ghost of Joe Pollock once was. In a voice raspy from the screaming she had done, she asked, "How… how did you…?"

"Piece of advice, in case you should need it," he told her, grabbing her arm and helping her to her feet. "The worst threat you can make to a living man is to kill him. The worst threat you can make to a dead one is to bring him back to life. The good ones don't want to leave the place they wound up in, and the bad ones are always afraid they'll end up in some place worse."

"His father," Marissa gasped, hardly hearing a word he had said. "His father said that he came home and found him that way. I hugged him at Joe's funeral. I hugged the man that killed him. Oh my God!, I… I…."

"Dead men were never meant to tell tales, pet," Spike said with the slightest hint of sympathy in his voice. "It can drive the living ones insane. Which explains the third threat these specters pose. I had one hell of a time getting my head free of all of things these buggers shoved in there last night. Almost didn't have the sense to pull myself into a crypt before the sun came up."

Marissa pulled away from Spike, staggering a few steps in front of him. He realized that she still had one hand inside her bag, and he wondered what it was that she was holding onto. Glancing behind him, he saw a small cadre of ghosts staring at the two of them, and he moved to put a hand on her back to push her along. "It'd be a good idea to head out, as we're attracting some attention-"

She jolted at his touch and lurched forwards, putting some distance between the two of them. Turning to face him, she held her ground as her tearstained face examined him. "Stop it," she said shakily. "I don't want you touching me. I don't want you sending me off to go get food while you talk about the bad guys with my cousin or my ex. I don't want to be pushed and pulled into one safe house after the other. Joe and I had two classes together. He wasn't evil, he wasn't whatever you are. He was a good, quiet kid."

"It's always the quiet ones," Spike mused.

"_Shut up_!" Marissa screeched, effectively wiping the tiny smile that had been forming on Spike's lips. "He was a good kid. He was a _normal_ kid. So whatever it is that's going on isn't about demons. It's affecting _everybody_ and I want to know what it is."

"It's always affecting 'everybody,'" Spike replied. "It always affects someone's son or daughter or friend or landlady or some such thing. There's no way that it wouldn't. How could it be the end of the world if the _world_ isn't affected? Whether it's demons, vampires, werewolves, or evil robots, someone's gotta be the victim, pet."

"Don't talk to me about _victims_!"

Spike was quiet for a moment before breaking out into a large, albeit mirthless, smile. "Ah, and here we get closer to the truth. So come on, pet. Tell dear old Spike what the trouble with vampires is. Are you covering up a scar a former flame left behind as a token, or did you have to dust your best friend in third grade because she grew a pair of fangs?"

"How can you be so callous?" Marissa cried.

"Hello, spent the better part of my life as evil."

"And you're not now?"

"No," Spike answered. "Let me tell you a quick story, pet, and let's see if you'll repay me in kind. Once there was a man who had his heart broken. While bemoaning his sorrows in the street one night, he caught a vampire's eye, she sired him, and he proceeded to wreak bloody havoc all across Europe and Asia, even making it into history books. Then at the turn of the most recent century, he came across a girl whose job it was to kill him. Vampire, meet Slayer. Slayer, meet vampire. And they did meet, and while the violence during every encounter was fantastic, one could never quite succeed in topping the other. Then came one fateful night when one decided he _wanted_ to top the other—'top' taking on quite a different meaning."

"Oh God," Marissa remarked, disgusted.

"It's bad manners to interrupt," Spike told her. "So the vampire did everything he could to prove to the Slayer that he actually did love her. And the Slayer replied that he was a soulless monster, incapable of love. Right, then. Only one way to solve this conundrum. Endure unspeakable torture at the hands of a demonic shaman and win back his soul."

Marissa's expression changed somehow, but saying that it softened would have been overstating the facts. At any rate, Spike continued, "Thing is, no one told the vampire what happens when you get your soul back. You understand about morality. You understand about guilt. You look at your past and you don't see triumphant exploits; you see victims. And the centuries of torture you dished out suddenly falls on your shoulders in those few seconds while you come back home, leaving that pain inside of you for the rest of your unnatural life." Looking at Marissa with a sad sort of humor in his eyes, he finished, "And yet she still didn't love him. It's cruel that a heart that can't beat can still break, even after more than a century of disuse."

"That's not cruel," Marissa replied blankly. "You think that just because you have a soul, you're not evil? What about the pedophiles and rapists of the world? _What about Joe Pollock's dad?_ A soul doesn't make them better than the average vampire, and it doesn't make _you_ any better than them either. You thirst for blood and you've got a vicious streak in you, and from what I saw with Robbie you're a whole lot stronger than a guy your size should be. So you know what's right and wrong, congrats. It doesn't mean that you can't choose what's wrong. It doesn't mean that you can't snap. And someone who can do the things you can do is going to cause one _hell_ of a row when you finally do snap. Buffy wasn't cruel not to love you. She was just being conscientious."

After a beat, Spike asked, "Conscientious?"

"It means careful."

"Yeah, I know what it means," Spike shot back. "I'll never be called the brains of an operation, but my vocabulary's fairly extensive. Look, I didn't tell you that story so you could spit on it and tell me that I'm still a monster, just an ensouled one. I told it to you thinking that maybe you'd feel a little more comfortable with the fact that you're more like than not going to see a lot of me in the coming weeks."

"What do you mean?"

"If I told you, I'd be betraying someone's trust," Spike told her. "While you might not expect me to care, I can understand why some secrets exist and can hold out on spilling them—at least until I have reason to. All I'll say is that I'm going to be in town for a while, and it looks like some of your friends might become my… well, certainly not _my_ friends, but I'm going to be having some business with them."

"You are _not_ dragging Robbie down in whatever it is you're planning to do!"

"Wouldn't _dream_ of asking Hercules to help me save the world. I deserve the sole credit for it at least once."

"Things like you don't save the world; you're the reason it's falling apart."

"Actually, the world got along just fine when it was filled with nothing but demons," Spike responded. "Then humans came along and brought organized religion, lawyers, and street hockey with them. Anytime the demons try to take their world back, you immediately classify it as evil, and good guys like me are expected to stop it. Personally, not my concern if you or Patch or anyone gets taken out; I'd just like to be certain I live to watch another dog race. Since I'm one of the few aligned with the forces of good that's got enough power to stop the other guys, I might as well enjoy the bone-crunching, hair-pulling action."

Marissa didn't know how to respond. She was no expert on demonology or theology, but it was to her understanding that the world started out with a couple of people named Adam and Eve, and she never heard of either of them being demons. Her right hand was starting to hurt, and she realized that she was still gripping something tightly within her bag. "You just don't get it," Marissa said at last. "It doesn't matter how things started out. This is _our_ world now. _My _world. The humans own it, and the demons don't get that possession is nine-tenths of the law."

"See, that's what I meant when I said you brought lawyers into the picture," Spike remarked. "If you think _I'm_ evil, you clearly never heard of a firm called Wolfram and Hart."

"We're all a little evil," Marissa told him. "Either through action or inaction. I'm tired of inaction." That said, she finally withdrew what she had been holding in her bag. Spike was surprised to see that it was a tree branch that looked like it had been fashioned into an impromptu stake.

"Well now," Spike said laughingly, looking her in the eye. "Looking for some artillery, were we? I _thought_ it shouldn't take you that long to leave Patch a message. Trying to find something that would take me out if a single hair was missing from Hercules' head?"

Holding the stake up, Marissa admitted, "I was actually half-willing to allow that Robbie would be dead by the time I got back. I guess that says a bit for my own morality."

"It says you're as obsessed with your vendetta as some of us may be about our own redemption," Spike observed. "If you're going to run me through, shouldn't I at least know why? Whose crime am I paying for?"

It took Marissa a very, very long time before she managed to choke out, "When I was thirteen, a vamp killed my little brother."

"Bum deal," Spike commiserated. After a second's thought, he asked, "So why hasn't Xander ever made mention about losing kin to a vampire?"

"Because he doesn't know," Marissa answered. "No one knows."

"And no one suspected anything when Junior didn't show up to family reunions?"

"He wasn't born yet," Marissa whispered. Spike noticed that the hand grasping the makeshift stake was trembling. "My mom's boyfriend died, and a few weeks later she found out she was pregnant. I watched from the living room window as she came walking down the street with a box of pizza one night… and the next thing I knew, she dropped the box and there was someone behind her and there was blood dripping down her throat."

After a moment, Spike concluded, "And so you think the best way to get back at the git that got away with snacking on your mum is to do to me what you should've done to him."

"You're half-right," Marissa said. "He didn't get away. A girl came up behind him and did something—staked him, most likely—and he turned to dust. She grabbed my mom before she could fall on the ground and called the cops from her cell phone, then disappeared just before they got there."

"Slayer," Spike murmured.

"That's what I've thought ever since Xander told me about Buffy," Marissa affirmed. "And the whole time, I didn't move or think or speak. I just stayed at my window and watched the whole thing. I saw Buffy look up at me, and she looked so… disappointed. Like she knew that I was that pregnant woman's daughter and I just couldn't force myself to do anything. If it hadn't been for her, my mother would have died. Instead, the blood loss just brought on a miscarriage… and my mom took to drinking. She lost her boyfriend and the last piece of him that was inside her, and I lost my mom. Because of a vampire she went through the worst kind of death, and that's the kind where you survive long enough to not have a reason to keep living."

Spike pursed his lips, going over this new information. He wanted to glance back to see if they were in danger from any of the ghosts, but he didn't think it was smart to take his eyes off of the girl. Irrational as she might be, that's part of what made her fun.

"That's a very sad story," Spike remarked. "Really and truly. Unfortunately, it fell upon ears every bit as deaf as the ones my own fell on. I'm not going to coddle you, pet. I only feel as sorry for you as I do for any of the other people who lost their families because of creatures like me."

"Then how can you claim a soul makes you _better_?" Marissa cried out. She rushed towards Spike with the stake, and was surprised by how suddenly a set of powerful hands grabbed her in defense. Her eyes widened at the sight of Spike's vamp-face and, feeling one hand at her throat and another at her wrist to keep the stake away, she was certain he was going to break her wrist and tear our her windpipe. The image of her ghost spending time with Joe Pollock's with their necks bent at similar angles terrified her more than she cared to admit.

"I know precisely what you're thinking," Spike proclaimed, his yellow eyes glaring down at her coldly. "You're wondering what witty one-liner I'll throw at you before going down on your neck and having myself a little treat. Or worse, that maybe I'll turn you into a vampire, so _you_ can live through the worst kind of death. Know what my rite of passage into this dark world was, sweetheart? I offed my own mum. _Twice_. Turned her, then staked her. That's the first thing most vamps do as soon as their baby teeth grow out. Kill off their families, and then go do the same to total strangers."

With a hard push, he shoved her backwards, causing her to yelp. "But I don't do that," he went on. "Not anymore. And it's got nothing to do with Slayers or pulled heartstrings or any of that bollocks. I have a _soul_, and that soul is what separates me from the thing that went after your mum. That soul is what made Buffy believe in me, call me a champion. And it's the same kind of soul that's working inside you right now, making you feel like absolute _dirt_ because you couldn't do anything to save your mum or your unborn brother. You were a child. Your head knew that there was nothing you _could_ do except get yourself killed along with the rest of your family. But your soul's the part of you that replays the thing over and over, believing like a fool that it could've done something to stop it."

"And now I can," Marissa told him harshly, raising the stake once again.

With a patronizing smile, Spike remarked, "You're not a Slayer, love."

"No," she agreed. "But I have a pointy stick. All it takes is a clear path to your heart."

Spike thought it over for a moment. He had no doubt whatsoever that, if it came down to it, he'd kill her before she could land a single blow. But he had also lived long enough to know that she was right; all it took was one slip, and he'd be only so many ashes riding on the breeze. It sounded like a gamble. It sounded like fun. "Right then," he finally told her. "Let's have it."

"What?" Marissa asked, surprised.

"It's what you want, yeah?" Spike queried, taking off his jacket and laying it on a nearby tombstone. "You want to see if you can do it. See what it's really like to fight vampires, if you'd be able to take them down. That's not all, I bet. I think part of you knows that I won't kill you, so you'll be fighting with a safety net."

"You won't kill me because you won't get the chance," Marissa scowled.

"I won't kill you because I haven't killed a human in a _long_ time," Spike told her. "Haven't done anyone in at all for at least… I dunno… weeks."

"Weeks?" Marissa asked, aghast.

"Maybe months," Spike recounted. "I can't recall if that one guy in San Francisco actually died."

"You went a couple of months without killing humans, and you claim you have a soul?"

"Hey," Spike pouted, "my soul was better than theirs, if you get my drift. Bad, bad people. I suspect one was actually a very nicely-dressed demon, considering her appetite for infants. Besides, we're talking about July and August. Those are a couple of pretty long months."

With something that actually sounded akin to a growl, Marissa lunged for him with the stake. He easily sidestepped it with a laugh. "Now that's it! Step into the ring and let's see if Xander Harris' brood is worth her salt!"

"This isn't about Xander," she cried, once again swiping and missing with the stake. "This is about _me_!" Seeing him arch to one side to dodge her next move with the stake, Marissa caught him off-guard with a kick to the gut. He doubled over, but still managed to grab her stake arm and swing her away so he could right himself.

"Funny," Spike mentioned, approaching her slowly. As he spoke, she continued to charge at him to no avail. "Patch would say the same thing. Everything was all about Buffy, Buffy, Buffy. Then the witch lost her bird and fell 'round the bend, and it was all Willow, Willow, Willow. And eventually, a certain vampire got his soul back and got in good with the Slayer, and it was all about me. But none of us wanted that attention. We just did what we could to square with it. And there was your cousin, caught up on how he's a pathetic little man with nothing to offer. How far did the fruit fall, I wonder?"

With a loud yell, Marissa angrily punched him hard in the face. Spike blinked down at her, surprised by the sting. She was breathing hard, her dark constricting clothes obviously not helping her any. In her angry eyes, he could actually see the family resemblance to Xander. Maybe he wouldn't have been so ugly if he had more genes in common with the pup. With a smirk, Spike pulled his fist back and returned the punch, sending Marissa to the ground.

She landed hard on her right shoulder, and her hair covered the left cheek that Spike had just done a number on. Putting a hand to the injury, Marissa found it excruciatingly tender. Moving her tongue around in her mouth, she discovered that no teeth had been knocked loose. Glaring up at Spike, she put on a brave front as she stated, "You're holding back."

"Yes I am," Spike replied. "And you're not. Which one of us is the worse for wear?"

Marissa glanced down at the fist she had hit Spike with. Her knuckles were bleeding. She couldn't even throw a punch, must less take one. Still, she pushed herself up onto her feet and said, "If we're judging by looks alone, the answer will always be you."

"What, my true face doesn't tickle your fancy?" Spike chuckled. "It could be worse. Must be hard looking in the mirror and seeing the mediocrity of your cousin reflected in your features, eh?"

Charging him once more, she asked, "Do you have some kind of fixation on Xander?"

"Rules of engagement," Spike answered, countering her moves. "Point out your opponent's weaknesses. And from what I've been able to see since I've met him about ten years ago, it looks like your biggest weakness is being a Harris. Doesn't seem like they amount to anything."

As she stumbled to the ground, Marissa's right foot went out and hooked Spike's. With a pull, she sent him flying to the ground. Reaffirming her grip around the stake, she lunged towards him. Atop of him, she grasped his shoulder with one hand and sent the stake crashing down… or tried to, at least. He managed to stop it hardly an inch above his chest. With a look into his demonic face, Marissa found that he was thoroughly amused.

"And that's that," Spike snorted conclusively. "There's your weakness. You're not aiming for revenge. You're aspiring to be like your remedial relation. There's a part of you that worships the ground Xander Harris walks on, and it just kills you. _You_ were the one who had your life ruined by a vamp, so why is it that _he_ gets to take charge of an operation that dedicates itself to exterminating them?"

"You're wrong," Marissa breathed with tears in her eyes.

"Am I?" Spike gloated. "Funny. I've been wrong before, but it usually doesn't result in a cry-fest."

With an anguished sound, Marissa stared at his chest and tried once again to get the stake to pierce his skin. She succeeded in touching the tip to Spike's shirt, and that was only because he let her. "Marissa," he said quietly. "Look at me." Pulling her eyes away from the stake, she looked up at him. His vamp-face was gone, as was all of his infuriating haughtiness. If not for the cold hand holding her wrist back with supernatural strength, she would have almost thought he was human.

"Until you know exactly why you're fighting and can embrace it without fuss," he told her, "you're not going to be much of a fighter. You're either fighting now to make up for the fighting you couldn't do to save your brother, or you're fighting to prove to Xander that you deserve some sort of rank in his little Slayer army, even if only as a secretary. One's not a more valid point than the other. You've just got to figure out which one's more genuine."

Swallowing back the tears that hadn't yet fallen, Marissa let go of the stake. When it fell, Spike let go of her and brushed the stake away with his arm, just to be on the safe side. Understandably exhausted, she slipped away from Spike and hunched over on the ground. If he wanted to kill her, he'd do it. If he wasn't, then she might as well take the moment to cradle her wounds and snivel over them.

Climbing to his feet, Spike watched her as she did a damned good job of keeping the tears in. They had had a little fun without attracting the attention of the ghosts or anything that might have found its way back via the spirit world, and they had both survived. All in all, it had been a good night, and now it was the pup's bedtime.

After putting his trench coat back on, Spike looked at the poor excuse for a stake lying discarded on the ground. Giving it a quick thought, he picked it up, walked towards Marissa, and offered it to her. Feeling his presence, she looked up and saw him holding it out to her. "You should fashion a better one," he mentioned as she slowly took it. "Still, it's better protection against the beasties than nothing, I suppose."

Once the stake was out of his hands, he considered the matter over for the night. Trusting that she wouldn't be able to clamber to her feet in a last-ditch effort to off him, he turned around and headed in the direction of the crypt in which he had set up house. "Spike."

At the mention of his name, he stopped. "What is it, pet?" When she didn't answer, Spike turned to look at her. She had gotten to her feet, and it looked as though she was staring numbly down at the piece of wood in her hands. After several moments of silence, she finally looked up at him.

"Teach me how to kill you."

* * *

Things weren't looking so good for the diminutive vengeance demon known as Sadrahd.

Splashing through the sewers, the timid creature that stood at nearly five feet tall ran through tunnel after tunnel. It wasn't until he thought his lungs might collapsed that he finally stopped and realized that he was no longer being chased. Since he was mostly to the lair anyway, he decided that no one would be the wiser if his exhaustion got the better of him and he just crawled the rest of the way.

He flinched once he entered the sealed burrow and heard an all-too familiar voice screech out, "Oh ick, Rahd, what did I tell you about dragging in all of that gross… grossness? Do you have _any_ idea how hard it is to get a maid down here?"

"S-s-sorry," Sadrahd said. "Sorry, but I, ah, had some trouble up there. One of your k-kind, I believe."

"Quit your stuttering," she commanded, getting up from her chaise lounge and pointing a nail file at him. "You sound like Porky Pig. I didn't send you up there as fast food for some second-rate vamp. I sent you up there-"

"For S-Spike, I know."

"…did you just interrupt me?!"

"G-g-get off your high horse, w-woman," Sadrahd snapped, wishing now more than ever that he could make his own wishes come true and be rid of his speech impediment. As though his size wasn't unimposing enough. "W-we're not master and s-servant, you know. I w-was just looking after _my_ business, and it j-just, and it just so happened that we might kill t-two birds with one s-stone."

"As though digging through your stutters weren't bad enough," she bemoaned, sitting back down, "now you're using similes. I _hate_ similes. They look like 'smiles' with an extra 'i' thrown in for no good reason."

"A-actually," Sadrahd corrected dryly, "it was a m-m-meta-metaphor. A metaphor. A simile uses the words 'like' or 'as,' which c-c-constitutes most of what you say." He moved towards the chaise lounge, trying to catch his breath and get over his recent scare. If he could calm down and concentrate, maybe he could reduce his stuttering and actually have _one_ mostly painless conversation with her. "Th-the Harris girl. You know, _my _end of the b-bargain. I was following her, and I f-found out th-that she's, that she's-"

"That she's _what_, doofus?"

"That she's friends with Spike!" Sadrahd got out.

She stopped filing her nails and actually looked him in the eye. As much as he was loath to admit it, she was actually quite beautiful. He probably could go through various other routes to get his personal revenge on the Harris family, but a team-up with a gorgeous blonde could never hurt.

"Your stupid little human girl that you're trying to get vengeance on is actually friends with _Spike_?" She threw her head back and laughed. Sadrahd could tell that she was very, _very_ pleased by the way she actually dropped her file.

"Actually, it's her cousin that-"

"I must be like the luckiest girl in the whole world," she interrupted, lost in her reverie. "Not only have I tracked down Spike, but I'll be making one of Buffy's best friends totally miserable when he sees what I've done to his family!"

Sadrahd was about to point out her various infuriating uses of the word "I" when it should be "we," but the words died on his lips when she ran her milky-white fingers through his curly dark hair. "And I've got _you_ to thank, Rahddy-kins," she purred. "If it wasn't for cute little you being all sneaky and stuff, I would've been… doing something… different from what I'm doing now."

"Think n-nothing of it," he crooned. Trying to get his head on straight, he became rather business-like as he continued, "J-just remember, I'll cast whatever c-curse you want me to cast on S-Spike as soon as you do something suitably t-terrible to Marissa Harris."

"Oh yeah, duh, no prob," she told him with a wave of her hand. "I never liked Xander anyway."

Sadrahd nodded. Usually, exacting one's own vengeance on an entire family was like pulling teeth. It was rare to find one person who had enough of a grudge against _every_ family member to get them to wish harm on all of them, so he would often have to go through various people to get the whole job done. On the plus side, he _had_ managed to come across a human who loathed Tony Harris enough to wish for his drinking to catch up to him. Mrs. Harris should be pleased by the results. A shame he needed to find someone to wish a similar affliction on her. Perhaps he should speak to Tony about that.

After Xander had come back to town, it was simply a matter of cataloguing his movements. The first relative he visited after his parents had been his aunt, and Sadrahd had witnessed the heart-to-heart conversation he had with his younger cousin after rescuing her from a vampire. Heading back to the lair before he could be spotted, he decided that Marissa Harris would be his next target. Thankfully, he had recently come across a vampire with enough petty maliciousness to wish harm upon _any_one for _any_ reason, so long as she ultimately got her way.

And now that they discovered that her intended target was actually a friend of _his_ intended target, this made the task _so_ much easier! Rubbing his hands together as he thought of all of the possible horrors he could inflict on Marissa and Spike, Sadrahd said, "G-great. Now what's the plan?"

"Plan?"

"The plan for the Harris girl."

"I didn't know we had to have a _plan_," she responded, confused. "I mean, can't I just wish her into a toad or something so we can get straight to Spike?"

Sadrahd gaped up at her. "Are you crazy? Our different t-t-targets can potentially become the _same_ target. Your little Spikey-poo is still trying to be a hero; my girl is set on proving him to be the villain. Think of the intrigue, treachery, pain… the _f-fun_!"

She seemed to consider the idea for a long time. "Planning things is so boring," she lamented as she rose to her feet and crossed her arms over her chest. "It'd be _so_ much more fun if they just popped up in here and I could wish different kinds of tortures on them. Can't I do that?"

"Y-you know the rules," Sadrahd said, although he doubted very much that anyone had bothered to teach her the rules by which vengeance demons abide. "I c-c-can grant you more than one wish, but the m-magic gets unstable after a while. And people s-start to notice. My superiors have already r-r-reprimanded me for getting too personally involved in my curses."

She thought about it again, then finally shrugged. "Yeah, maybe one big thing will be a whole lot of fun. But it's gotta be _really_ good. Good enough to hurt them both at the same—oh! _That's_ what you meant by two birds with one stone!" Sadrahd flinched. What happened to the girls who were both pretty _and_ intelligent? He knew they existed in the seventeenth century, but he couldn't remember meeting one since. "Yeah," she continued. "Yeah, this'll be great. We can stay up all day drawing plans and making evil plots. I mean, there's no rush. It's not like the world's gonna end, you know?"

Blissfully unaware of the irony in her statement, Harmony Kendall beamed with excitement.


	2. Bloodbeat, pt 1

**Author's Note:** This chapter ended up being much longer than I anticipated, forcing me to break it up into two chapters to be able to upload it. So I'd recommend reading the next chapter along with this one, since they're part of the same "episode."

I introduce various theories on lycanthropy in here, which has always been of great interest to me. I hope it comes off as an enjoyable read and not just a bunch of confusing demonology stuff (because that would make me more fit to write a series about Giles instead of Spike). At any rate, read, review, and most importantly: enjoy!

_

* * *

__No need for comfort, no need for light  
I am hunting down demons tonight  
Eat the terror, lick the spark  
Uh-oh, my blood beats dark_  
-"Bloodbeat" by Patrick Wolf

* * *

"You move like a corpse."

"Don't mock the dead," Spike replied, regaining his balance after Marissa's fist clipped him on the shoulder. "You should know better than that. You should also know not to waste your breath and energy on pointless taunts."

Dodging a lunge from the vampire, Marissa breathed, "If my taunts bother you enough for you to make a slip, then they're not pointless. You taught me that yourself." With that, she pivoted behind him and connected her elbow with his spine, causing him to fall flat on the floor. "Funny. I would've thought a few centuries of being a bloodthirsty killer would've given you a little something called skill."

"Stop adding onto my age," Spike murmured after flipping back onto his feet and facing her. "I've told you, it's only been _one_ century and a few decades. Might not put me in league with Lestat and the other poofters, but it's more than enough to help me teach you a lesson." Feinting a left, Spike counteracted her movement, slipped behind her, and wrapped his arms around her, effectively pinning Marissa's arms to her side. "Of course," he whispered into her ear with a smirk, "that all depends on what kind of lesson you'd like to be taught."

Disgusted, Marissa slammed her heel down onto Spike's foot. His grip loosened only enough for her to spin around and grab his throat. She knew by now that she wasn't cutting off his air supply, so she'd have to hope to cause enough pain to blindside him. Pressing her nails into his flesh, she pushed him backwards and brought up the stake she had in her other hand. "School's out, Spike," she told him as she struck him.

Spike's face contorted with pain as he let out a loud yell. Looking down at the stake protruding from his chest, it was all he could do to blink at it disbelievingly. Glancing back up at Marissa, he shouted, "You little _bitch_!" Though it caused him even more pain, he punched her hard enough in the stomach to knock the wind out of her, causing her to release him. Gently touching the stake, he hissed, "Augh! That _hurts_."

After a few coughs, Marissa looked up at him. One arm draped over her stomach, she grunted, "Well, _yeah_. What'd you expect it to feel like?"

"Whoever thinks penetration is pleasurable is barking mad," Spike attested. Steeling himself for the sting, Spike took hold of the stake and yanked it out. "Oh bugger-!" His voice trailed off into a long groan, as he was determined not to make a big deal out of it. "I _knew_ there was a reason we decided against using wooden stakes."

"I don't know," Marissa remarked, slowly righting herself. "The plastic ones deprive me of the pleasure of watching you shrivel up and die. But it's nice to know that you've got enough faith in me to know that I'd eventually get you in the heart."

"Eventually?" Spike muttered, tossing the stake onto the floor. Moving towards a beaten-up sofa he had dragged into his large mausoleum, he dropped down onto it as he said, "It's only been two nights. One and a half, really. You're reacting to years of hatred, pet. While that's got its disadvantages, I'm not stupid enough to believe that you wouldn't get lucky."

"That wasn't getting lucky," Marissa responded as she stooped down and picked up the discarded stake. The blow to her stomach had been harder than she would want Spike to believe, so she pretended that she had _meant_ to collapse onto the floor when her abdominal muscles gave out. She could almost _hear_ Spike's smirk, and so she acted as though she found the cold dusty floor rather comfortable and lay down, looking up at the dim ceiling. "I distracted you with pain and acted faster than you could react. If I really wanted to kill you, I could."

"If you really wanted to kill me," Spike told her as he took off his black t-shirt, "you'd keep your master plan to yourself until you were ready to do the deed. Never let an enemy know more than he should. That can be the difference between life and death."

Marissa considered his words as she folded her arms under her head. She was horribly sore, covered in graveyard dirt and crypt dust and cobwebs, and was fairly certain that the long gash she received on her right forearm deserved a set of stitches. Still, she considered tonight a success. Her short skirmish with Spike the night before gave her a strange sort of purpose. And tonight, after what couldn't have been more than a couple of hours of fighting, she actually fulfilled that purpose. Had the stake in her hand been made of wood instead of plastic, she would have succeeded in killing a vampire. And not just any vampire, but a vampire from the history books. A vampire that the Slayer herself couldn't get the better of. She had the ability to completely dust a legendary-

"Right then," Spike remarked as he rose to his feet. "Now that warm-up's over, let's get started."

Gawking up at him, Marissa blurted out, "What?!" Seeing him shirtless, she saw the angry wound on his pale chest, still dripping blood. "Are you kidding me? That was no warm-up. You've got a _hole_ through your chest, okay?"

"What, this?" Spike asked, glancing down at the injury. "It's only a flesh wound."

"Don't get all Monty Python on me."

"Oh please," Spike scoffed. "A hit this size is about the same to me as a paper cut is to you. It'll sting a little and slow me down, but I'll count that as a handicap. Now are you ready to begin or not?" Seeing that she could hardly sit up, he went towards her bag that she had laid on a nearby table and rifled through it. Taking out her cell phone, he looked at the time and sighed, "Oh, for-...! It's hardly nine o'clock. Don't tell me you're exhausted already?"

"Who's exhausted?" Marissa asked, stumbling onto her feet. "I mean, I just lay down because I thought you were going to, you know, take a minute and cry over your boo-boo or something. But heck, if we've only been at this for an hour, then-"

"My 'boo-boo?'" Spike snickered. "Tell me, pet, have you a bit of a blonde in you? And if not, would you like some?"

Appalled, Marissa inquired, "Did you do this with the Slayer?" Seeing Spike's face go serious, she decided to tread on a bit more carefully. "You know, this whole gross-out sex joke trade-off thing. It's distracting during fights, so I thought maybe you used it on her to get her to drop her guard, and ultimately the sexual tension just got so that the two of you... okay, right, let's kick one another's ass. Come on."

"Sexual tension?" Spike queried with a laugh. It made Marissa's stomach turn to see how perversely pleased he was by her phrasing. "So this Ice Queen bit is just a charade, is it? You've known me for only a few days, and you already feel a sort of tension between us."

Genuinely revolted, Marissa crossed her arms over her chest and refused to budge when he took a step towards her. It took much more willpower than she thought she had. "Well, I admit that if you weren't a 150-year-old dead guy, you might be slightly more appealing than syphilis. Unfortunately, necrophilia gives me the willies, so I'd appreciate it if you maintain your distance."

"Ooh, a sharp tongue," Spike remarked, still closing in. "I've always fancied that in a woman. You remind me a little of the Slayer in that regard-" He stopped when he felt the tip of the plastic stake a mere centimeter away from the puncture wound it had made only moments before.

"We've already learned that penetration is bad," Marissa told him sternly. "I can reinforce that message if you need me to."

He obligingly took a step back and gently waved the weapon away. "Ease off, love. I'm trying to get you angry enough to want to fight again, not angry enough to come at me with the holy water you've got in your purse." As her widened eyes looked towards her opened messenger bag on the table behind him, Spike grinned. "Of course, that _does_ make it interesting. If you manage to get past me, you can theoretically douse that little toy in your hand in holy water, and that would probably do a _lot_ of damage, plastic or no."

She returned her eyes to Spike. Getting ready to push past him if she had to, she quietly asked, "Can holy water kill you?" It would be stupid of him to admit such a thing, but he had to. They had made a deal. She had no reason to trust his answer, but he seemed to have been honest enough so far.

"No," Spike replied. "But it hurts like a bitch, and I _will_ do all I can to make sure you don't spray any on me. I'd much rather break your hand than burn my skin off. _Again_."

"So crosses and holy water work," Marissa worked out, "but garlic doesn't?"

"This is the textbook portion of tonight's lesson, then?" Spike asked, moving away from her. Sitting back down on his sofa, he explained, "Some demons have a sensitivity to garlic. It's more of an allergy, really. Back in olden days, demons and vampires were all lumped together as 'Evil Things,' so the superstition stuck. Garlic _can_ be used in some magic rituals, though, and what is religion but magic with a head honcho known as God or Allah or some such thing?"

"That's blasphemous."

"Do I _have_ to bring up the 'formerly evil' thing again?" Spike groaned. "Look, believe what you want. I never bothered to ask Harris if his family were Protestants or Catholics or Druids. Whatever your beliefs are, it doesn't change the facts. A cross is a talisman, just like a pentacle. And holy water's been supposedly 'blessed' by a prayer, the same as any object that's been powered by an incantation. Religion is a form of magic; it's just a widely accepted form of magic."

After a long while, Marissa finally said, "Episcopalian."

"What?"

Lowering the stake, Marissa stated, "I'm Episcopalian. Well, my mother is. Or claims to be. I don't really know what Xander's part of the family believes in. I'm not even sure what _I_ believe in. I guess I'm a Christian, but that's only because it's what I grew up with."

"Oh," Spike remarked, not knowing what else to say. "Well, there you go. You're a Christian."

Thinking about it for a moment, Marissa asked, "Is that good? I mean... does it have any meaning at all? You told me last night that demons ruled the world and then humans came along and took it away from them, so... what does that mean? Did we get rid of the bad demons? Were the demons actually good? If there's a God, which one of us did He create? Or what if He created both of us? And why would He do something like that?"

"Those thoughts are a little too deep for a beginner's class, love," Spike replied.

"But you _died_," Marissa protested. "You died, and the Slayer died, and both of you came back. So... what? Were you just unconscious for the time that you were dead and then _poof_:you're suddenly here again?What's the point of dying if you can just be brought back?"

"It's not just a waggle of one's nose and speaking the magic words," Spike informed her. "Resurrection isn't the same as a protection spell. We're talking about moving through different planes and completely upsetting the natural order of things. It takes a lot to even things out with the Powers That Be once you try to bring someone back."

"The Powers That Be?" Marissa asked. "That's a nice, vague term for God."

"Actually, it's what they prefer to be called," Spike corrected. "They, or it, or he, or she. No one really knows _what_ the Powers That Be are, except that they're mysterious, powerful, and too lazy to do their own sodding work half the time."

"I'd say that that comment would get you into Hell," Marissa breathed, walking towards her purse, "except that you've probably already been there."

"Lousy plumbing," Spike recollected. "And a rotten smell off of everything. Aside from that, it's not too different from Earth. Pain, torture, lots of unexpected and unpleasant sorts of personal violation. Kinda reminds me of New York City, actually."

"You're making me _very_ happy that I don't travel much," she said as she put the stake in her bag. "I'd prefer not to think of any famous cities as being literal hells on Earth."

"Actually, that's Los Angeles."

"What?"

"Oh, sorry," Spike told her. "I forgot I signed some sort of stupid non-disclosure contract settlement bollocks about that. Damn, Wolfram and Hart got me coming and going. You're not studying to be a lawyer, are you? I'd kill you without hesitating. Unless you're really good and wouldn't mind defending a vampire in a court of law. Then I could use you."

"Either one of us got hit in the head tonight," Marissa said tiredly, "or you're just babbling about wolves and lawyers."

"Wolfram," Spike corrected. "As in, Wolf and Ram, not... oh, never mind. At any rate, you just reminded me that I won't be available for another rendezvous tomorrow; I promised someone I'd do him a favor."

"I don't know which is more surprising," Marissa commented. Unsuccessfully suppressing a wince as her muscles ached in protest to her putting her bag over her shoulders, she remarked, "The fact that you have a friend or the fact you'd actually do someone a favor."

"I never said he was a friend," Spike told her as he walked towards the door of his crypt and grabbed another shirt on the way. "And I do favors. I do a plethora of favors. When it benefits me."

"Like the way you're doing me the 'favor' of training me," Marissa smirked. "All it's costing me is a carton of cigarettes every week. Honestly, just because you can't get lung cancer doesn't mean your nose doesn't work. Don't you _smell_ that?"

"I smell blood," Spike remarked, peering out the window. Marissa froze, and Spike turned to look at her. His eyes went down to the open cut on her right forearm, staining the edges of her three-quarter sleeved green shirt. "Don't think I didn't notice how quickly you packed up as soon as the subject shifted from fighting. You're more hurt than you let on. Know your limitations before you end up being just another ghostie in the cemetery."

"It's just a flesh wound," Marissa muttered weakly, tugging at her sleeve.

"Oh come on, it was funnier when _I_ said it," Spike scolded her as he pulled a dark blue shirt over his head. "Speaking of the ghosties, they're out and about right now. I should take you home."

"I don't need an escort," Marissa objected.

"Tell that to the ghost that had you tearing at your hair last night," Spike retorted as he grabbed his jacket off the back of a chair and put it on. Opening the door, he held out a hand towards her. "I've told you, your cousin doesn't need much in the way of motivation to make a move against me, and I'd much rather not wage war against him with the world falling to pieces all around us. Pointless waste of energy, and I'd kill him too quickly for it to be any fun."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Marissa stormed past Spike and walked into the cemetery. She felt him shadowing her and decided to slow her stride, only because she didn't feel comfortable having him trailing along behind her. Sensing her discomfort, he moved in alongside her. He was no fool, however. He also didn't trust her enough to allow her to fall behind him. "By the way," he asked, "what ever happened with your relation? Didn't he call you back?"

Shaking her head, Marissa reached into her bag for her phone. "No," she replied, checking to make sure she hadn't missed any calls. "He's staying in Holbrook with our cousin Charlene's family and won't be back until late tonight. I called his parents' house, and his mom said that she heard his phone ringing in his room, so it turns out he left his cell behind. Typical Xander."

"I expect no less," Spike told her, guiding her through the less-populated areas of the graveyard. "Well, when you do get a hold of him, be sure to leave out any and all details about our extended contact with one another. You keep using the word 'training,' and it might make him think I'm getting you ready to take part in what he and I were discussing the other night. I think he'd rather keep you out of this for as long as he can."

"Too bad," Marissa shot back, trying to stay close to Spike while simultaneously keeping her distance from him. "If something bad is coming to Woodridge because of these ghosts and one of them tried to mind-rape me last night, then I've got every right to do what I can to protect myself and my town, even if it means making a deal with the Devil. By the way, _is_ there a Devil?"

"Yes and no," Spike answered. "Yes, there's something called the First Evil, which is literally the root of all evil. I squared off with it myself five years back; it's the reason your quaint little town was reduced to rubble. Whether or not it's the Judeo-Christian being called Satan is still up for debate. Personally, I stopped trying to figure out whether the Jews or the Muslims got it right or wrong, since when you boil it down, they're all a little wrong."

"I just don't understand it," Marissa murmured, furrowing her brow. "If none of the major religions really got it right, then why does the Christian cross repel vampires? Okay, it's a talisman, but does that mean that vampires have a Christian origin? I saw this one movie with Gerard Butler that theorized that the original Dracula was actually Judas Iscariot, cursed for his betrayal of-"

"The real Dracula looks nothing like Gerard bloody Butler," Spike responded disdainfully. "The real Dracula looks like a giant, stupid, gangly... Shih-Tzu or something."

"A Shih-Tzu?" Marissa dubiously asked. "Dracula looks like a Shih-Tzu?"

"The hair," Spike spat out, motioning to his own hair for emphasis. "It's very... it just looks... look, in any case, Dracula doesn't look like any of your pretty boy actors, and it's a pity no Armageddon managed to take out Hollywood instead of Sunnydale. You and that mongrel of yours must have seen every poorly-made vampire movie ever made."

"Do you have a problem referring to people by their names?" Marissa asked. "It's Robbie, in case you've forgotten. And yeah, he kinda had a thing for horror movies. He wasn't too big on slasher movies or anything, but he liked vampires and werewolves and Frankenstein-like monsters. I think I watched _Underworld _and its sequel with him at least four or five times."

"God, I hate that movie," Spike grunted.

Marissa was quiet for a moment. Then, shoving her hands in her pockets, she murmured, "Yeah, me too. I prefer _Interview with the Vampire_." Noting Spike's cringe, she chuckled. "Let me guess: _Underworld _was too stylized and _Interview_ was too 'nancy.' You probably like... _The Lost Boys_."

"No, I don't!" Spike barked out, a little too quickly. "And you bloody well better shut up about it!"

Surprised by the outburst, Marissa was happy to realize that they were out of the graveyard. Wandering away from Spike, she breathed, "Okaaay, thanks for that information. I'll just smile and nod and get out my holy water as I continue on my way alone."

Following after her, Spike remarked, "I think I should take you all the way, just in case."

Remembering something that Spike had told Xander two nights before, Marissa had a feeling she knew what "just in case" meant. "You just want to find out where I live so you can use that as leverage against Xander."

Spike was about to reply that her perceptiveness continued to astound him, but an unexpectedly familiar voice sounded from behind him. "Spike? I _thought_ that was your voice!" Turning around, Spike caught sight of a droopy-skinned former acquaintance of his.

"Clem, you old bugger!" Spike exclaimed, grinning at the benevolent demon. "I haven't seen you since Sunnydale. So is _this_ where the old gang transferred to?"

"All of us," Clem attested. "Including the loan sharks." Giving Spike a moment to start over this revelation, Clem turned his attention to the girl at Spike's side. Offering her a wave, he smiled and said, "Hi there."

"Oh, right," Spike remarked. "Clem, this is Marissa. Marissa, Clem."

Marissa didn't know how to respond. On one hand, she knew that this new person wasn't a vampire. But... _Maybe he just has a really weird skin condition_, she thought hopefully. Wondering where the demons had been hiding out before that weekend, she gulped and gave a quick wave. "Um, hi."

"Friend of Spike's?" Clem asked.

"Friend of a friend," Marissa answered. "Of a friend of a friend. Um, Spike, I've got to go now." Absently waving again to Clem, she tried not to squeak as she said, "Nice meeting you. Bye!" Trying not to think about the way his flesh fell in bags over his face, neck, and arms, Marissa turned and quickly walked towards her home.

Watching her leave, Clem inquired, "She's a human?"

"Yeah," Spike replied, getting a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

As though in wonder, Clem stated, "And she didn't get weirded out."

"Guess not," Spike said, lighting the cigarette in his mouth.

"She seems really nice!"

"I suppose."

"Are the two of you...?"

Coughing after a sharp pull of the cigarette, Spike muttered, "Oh God, no! It'd be like Superman wooing a woman with breasts made out of kryptonite!" After exhaling a plume of smoke while Clem laughed over his comment, Spike asked, "So does the gang still get together for poker every Thursday?"

"It's every Saturday now," Clem told him. "Billy Beckham got a job and only has weekends off, and he has to go to church on Sundays with his wife and mother-in-law."

"Billy Beckham? Married?" Spike let out a chuckle. "Whoever ended up with him must be a real witch."

"She's a harpy, actually," Clem brought up. "Nice lady, but she's allergic to kittens. So when it comes time to play at Billy's house, we have to do it on a play now, pay later arrangement. You should come by for our next game. We're doing it in my place this week, and I've fixed up a really nice area in the back of the local Doublemeat Palace's storeroom."

"Sounds like fun," Spike said. "I might give it a go, apocalypse pending."

"Oh, that's right," Clem realized. "Our friends in the graveyard." Glancing at the cemetery two blocks away, Clem lowered his voice as though afraid of being overheard. "I have to tell you, Spike, I've been hearing some awful nasty rumors going around lately."

"I'll put them to rest for you right now," Spike told him. "They're not rumors. It's more likely than not that the scary things you've been hearing are actually true. I'm pretty sure there's someone orchestrating all of this, making the ghosts manifest in the hopes of breaking down the walls between their world and ours. Could be the formation of another Hellmouth, from what I could see. It seems like something big enough to be the work of the First again, but I haven't come across any of the hearsay that'd indicate it."

Clem looked at Spike, seemingly shocked. After a moment, he said, "Um, okay, that sounds rather terrifying. I think I might just cancel Saturday night's game now, since the rumors I was referring to have been about you."

"About me?" Spike asked, bemused. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, the same as usual," Clem replied. "You've apparently ticked someone off and they're out for your blood now."

"Is that all?" Spike smirked. "Listen, those loan sharks can bluster all they want-"

"I'm not talking about the sharks, Spike," Clem interrupted. "I've heard about that deal you made with Wolfram and Hart after LA, so I know you don't have a whole lot of monetary concerns right now."

"How'd you know about-"

"I'm a demon, Spike," Clem explained. "You should know that it's our business to know things that the rest of the world shouldn't know about, especially when it happens to a huge city just a few towns over and concerns one of your old buddies. But as far as I've heard, this doesn't have anything to do with LA. There's apparently some new vampire in town who's out to turn you into dust, and that's only if she happens to be in a good mood that night."

"A she?" Spike queried lightly. "Must be an old flame." Remembering about the list of old flames in his past, the small smile he had been wearing slowly faded away. "Or a scorching inferno. Have you heard any specifics?"

"None about the vampire," Clem answered with a shake of his head. "But word on the street is that she's hooked up with a vengeance demon."

"A vengeance demon?!" Spike hissed, nearly dropping his cigarette. "That's a little out of line!"

"Is it?" Clem asked.

"Well, maybe that's a matter of perspective," Spike recounted.

"I'm telling you, Spike, I don't want to be in your shoes," Clem told him. "I mean, they're nice shoes and all, but I've seen vengeance demons at work. And the worst part is, I hear this vengeance demon's out to settle a personal vendetta and it may or may not involve you."

"Personal vendetta?" Spike asked, liking the sound of this less and less the more Clem spoke. "Oh bloody hell, tell me it isn't Halfrek, is it? My business with her is _long_ over, and I haven't done anything to-"

"Halfrek specializes in children, remember?" Clem brought up. "Besides, this vengeance demon's a guy. When I said that the vampire hooked up with him, I meant that she _hooked up_ with him."

"Fantastic," Spike mumbled. "An old flame who hates me is shacking up with a new beau who's got the power to erase me from existence, if she wishes it. Just when I thought I was finally getting by, some joker up there decided to have another laugh."

Genuinely concerned about his friend, Clem offered, "Well, can you think of who the vampire might be? If it's an ex-girlfriend, which one of them is low enough to do something like this to you _and_ mess around with a vengeance demon on top of it?"

"Clem, I appreciate you trying to help, but have you _seen_ the women I used to date?" Spike ran a hand through his hair, trying not to get too upset about this. Say what you want about vengeance demons, but they're tricky little bastards. The smartest thing Xander ever did was decide against marrying his, even if she _was_ retired. "With my track record, it could be anyone from Drusilla to-"

Even as Spike cut himself off, he knew that he had hit on it. It seemed as though Clem agreed with him. "Hey, that _would_ make sense," the demon responded. "I mean, I never met her, but from what you've told me it seems like she's a little unhinged and has some _serious _issues to work out. And after leaving you for a chaos demon, a vengeance demon would actually be her idea of moving up in the world."

"Clem, you're not helping." Spike tossed his cigarette onto the ground, too caught up in his thoughts to even smoke. If Drusilla was in Woodridge and making time with a vengeance demon who had prior reason to hate him, there was really nothing for Spike to do but wait for the ball to drop. He knew Drusilla, and he knew that she wasn't likely to wish for any sort of quick and painless death for him. In fact... she might not even go for _him_.

Looking at Clem, Spike realized that he was putting the demon in danger just by being seen in public with him. He suddenly remembered the demonic face he had glimpsed while he had been talking with Marissa in the cemetery the night before. If Drusilla was indeed involved, no one was safe.

"You should probably go," Spike told Clem, walking away from him. "Don't try to get in touch with me until you hear rumors that whatever's after me is either gone or dead." Smelling Marissa's blood on the air, he decided that he should hurry on after her and give her the same warning. Spotting clouds in the sky, he went on his way before the rain washed away the scent.

"Hey Spike," Clem called. "Do you think you can put in a good word with that Marissa girl for me?"

* * *

Marissa was just pulling the last tangle loose from her hair when she heard the doorbell ring.

Putting her comb down, she went to her closet, grabbed a Woodridge College sweatshirt, and pulled it on over her pajama top. She had managed to get home and shower off the war grime without her mother seeing her, but she didn't want to risk anyone seeing the nearly four-inch gash on her arm. If it was Xander at the door, he'd be liable to think that she was a cutter and would freak out. Then again, he'd probably freak out even more if he knew the truth.

"I'll get it," she called as she headed down the stairs. She knew that her mother was probably too busy watching _Wheel of Fortune_ or some such thing, but she couldn't shake the habit of calling out when she was going to answer the door. She usually glanced through the front window before opening the door, but she was so certain that Xander had probably just gotten her messages from the night before and sped over that she simply opened it. Through the rain that had started to fall when she was in the shower, she was surprised to see a certain bleached blond vampire on her doorstep. "Spike!" Marissa cried, instinctively moving to slam the door.

Spike held out a hand in defense. "No, wait, I just needed to tell you something. Jesus!" Looking past her into the house, he pursed his lips for a moment before stating, "That looks like a real cozy living room back there. Nice and warm and _dry_."

Glancing behind her to make sure her mother wouldn't emerge from her bedroom, Marissa hissed, "Spike, if you have something to say, just _say_ it before my mother comes out."

"What, are you ashamed of your new school chum?"

"_Spike_!"

"Let me in and I'll say it."

Marissa raised an eyebrow. She had taken out several books on vampire folklore from the campus library that afternoon, and she suddenly realized what was going on. With a relishing smile, she asked, "You can't come in unless I invite you, can you?"

Normally, Spike would have bluffed or joked his way through this, but being drenched in a sudden downpour had a tendency to make him rather cranky. "No, I can't come in without an invitation, and if I don't get an invitation soon, this entire house will be lit up like a Christmas tree as soon as I can get my hands on some lighter fluid."

"Where are you going to find a dry match?"

Just as Spike looked ready to blow up at her and her wretched gloating, he heard a woman's voice call from behind Marissa. "Marissa, who's at the door?" Judging by the way Marissa's eyes widened, the middle-aged, bleary-eyed woman who stepped in from behind her was none other than dear old mum.

"Good evening, Ms. Harris," Spike greeted her. "I go to school with your daughter."

"Well, what are you doing standing out there in the rain? Come in before you get pneumonia!"

Even as Marissa glared at her mother, Spike grinned amicably, both in gratitude and in triumph. "Thank you, Ms. Harris. It was a starting to get a little chilly." He tried not to laugh as Marissa slinked away from the door as he stepped inside.

"Stop that Ms. Harris crap; it's Elsie," she replied. "And you are?"

"Mike!" Marissa broke in, deciding against giving her mother Spike's actual name. "Mike, from my communications class. We, uh, have a speech due tomorrow and I guess he, uh..."

"Marissa," Elsie interjected, "as long as he didn't get you pregnant, I couldn't care less." To Spike, she asked, "Would you like a towel?"

"Yes please, that'd be helpful," Spike replied. He kept his smile on his face until the woman was out of the room. As soon as she was gone, he quirked an eyebrow. "Monday night and that woman's as blitzed as a wino on New Year's Eve. No wonder you'd rather spend your nights in the cemetery."

"Spike, how did you find me?"

"Followed my nose," he answered. "Sniffed out your blood until I got here. Come to think of it... I still smell it. Didn't you shower?"

Before Marissa could answer, her mother returned with a dark green towel. "Here you go," she told him as she handed it off to him. Spike didn't get a chance to offer his thanks before Elsie narrowed her eyes at him and asked, "Aren't you a little too old to be sleeping with Marissa?"

"Ma," Marissa choked out, mortified, "he's _not_ sleeping with me."

"And if I had any intention of it," Spike remarked sarcastically, "I'd ask your permission, first."

"What would I care who she's sleeping with?" Elsie asked, already headed back into her room. "As long as she doesn't expect me to provide for the kid or help pay the STD testing bills, she can keep screwing as many of her professors as she wants."

"He's _not_ my professor!" Marissa screamed out as Elsie shut the door to her room.

Not knowing how to reply for a moment, Spike shook his head as he shrugged his jacket off. "Charming woman," he said dryly as he began toweling off his hair. "I can tell that you've one heck of a shining role model when it comes time for you to be a mum."

"I'm not a whore," Marissa told him as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"No one ever said you charged anyone for-"

"I'm _not_ a whore," Marissa repeated.

Seeing the tears brimming in Marissa's eyes, Spike decided to swallow his remaining words rather than use them. The more he saw of familial relations over the years, the more he realized how good he had it when he had been alive.

When he was finally reasonably dry, he folded up the towel and said, "I just came over to let you know that I think we should start fighting other people."

Blinking up at him, Marissa asked, "What?"

He explained, "I've just gotten word that I may be in a spot of trouble over the coming days, so it'd probably be safer for you if you stayed away. I've got someone after me who may not be against going through other people to try and hurt me. I wouldn't want you or any of your kin getting mixed up in something that's nothing to do with you."

Marissa eyed him steadily before asking, "Would that really hurt you? If Xander or I got hurt?"

Spike cocked his head towards Marissa, as though confused. "What, you don't retain long-term information? I have a _soul_. If any innocent person gets hurt because of me, that puts a stain on it. That puts a weight on it. My soul's already heavy enough without worrying about any more collateral damage."

"I thought you told Robbie yesterday that you don't care if I get hurt?"

"Well, I _don't_," he answered. "People get hurt all the time, every day. I can't walk around like some bleeding heart, crying a river every time someone scrapes his knee. If Robbie hurts you or if you get caught up in the ghost business, that's a damned shame. But if you get hurt because _I'm_ the one that pushed you in the way of oncoming traffic, then that's no shame; that's a _sin_. Some sins I don't mind so much. Being personally responsible for more death isn't one of them. And speaking of personally responsible, let me see your arm; I'm smelling fresh blood." Marissa instinctively drew back, and he adjusted that with, "I'm not hungry. I just want to see."

Uncertainly, Marissa offered him her right arm, keeping an eye out to make sure her mother wouldn't re-enter the scene. Spike took it and gingerly rolled up the gray sleeve of the sweatshirt. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, seeing the blood staining the inside of the sleeve.

"It wasn't bleeding when I came out of the shower," Marissa told him. "I thought it clotted."

"You didn't even bandage this up," Spike chastised. "What, did you slap on some peroxide and think your work was done? Where are the bandages?"

"We don't keep anything other than standard Band-Aids here," Marissa said. "I would have had to use the entire box to cover all of this up."

"And that wasn't a clue that this was more serious than a little scratch?" Spike asked. Shaking his head, he told her, "Cut up an old shirt or something that you don't want anymore and use that as a bandage. If it doesn't stop bleeding soon, you'll have to go to a hospital."

"I don't have money for a hospital," Marissa argued.

"I'll give you money."

"What?"

"Not a lot," Spike quickly amended. "I may or may not have a small stash hidden somewhere, left over from a certain legal deal I made a few years ago. I don't exactly have a steady income, but I'd be willing to part with a few bucks if that's all that's keeping you from going to see a professional about this."

Marissa was silent for a long time, unsure of how to respond. Not only had Spike come by to warn her of some potentially dangerous times ahead, but he was offering her money to treat a wound... a wound that he himself inflicted! Pulling her arm away from him, she finally said, "I'll rip up an old shirt." After Spike nodded, Marissa narrowed her eyes and asked, "You're not just being nice to me because my mother thinks I'm sleeping with you, are you? Because she does that with almost everyone who walks through the door, including a couple of girls."

"Then you must have a lot of people showering you with sympathy," Spike smirked. "And I'm sure you've had to give out your fair share of pity screws to poor losers who got their hopes up." Seeing Marissa's angry glare, Spike only widened his smile. "Don't lose your temper, love. Wait until that arm heals up. Not only will you feel better, but by then it'll probably be safe to try and kill me again."

"You should invest in a waiting list."

"I'd rather invest in a motel room for the night," Spike said as he began putting his jacket back on. "Have you any idea how foul a damp crypt smells? It positively reeks. And after the unexpected cold shower I raced through to get here, I could use a hot bath." Handing her the towel, he added, "Thanks for the temporary refuge. And sorry about the arm; I'll go easy on you next time."

"Pfft, right," Marissa scoffed. "Like you need to." She watched as he opened the door before quickly adding, "Hey Spike?" When he turned around to face her, she hesitated for a moment before telling him, "If you need to... uh, that is... if every motel, hotel, and homeless shelter within twenty miles of here is booked to capacity and you're getting absolutely desperate... the couch is available."

Spike gave her a long, considering look before asking, "It took a _lot_ for you to work up the nerve to say that to me, didn't it?"

"Oh God, yes."

With a half smile, he replied, "I appreciate it."

He had just stepped onto the porch when he heard her voice again. "Hey Spike?" Turning to face her once more, he saw that she had opened the hall closet and was reaching for something. When she finally found what she was looking for, she tossed it towards him.

Spike looked down at the light blue and bright yellow thing that he now held in his hand. "What the hell?"

"It's an umbrella," she told him. "You _do_ know how to work one, don't you?"

"Are you crazy?" Spike asked. "What kind of self-respecting creature of the night walks around with an umbrella? And... oh Jesus, are these rubber duckies designed on it?!"

"If you don't want it, then toss it back!"

"No!" Spike told her, reeling in the umbrella as though protecting it.

Smirking, she told him, "Then shut up and use it." She had to stifle a laugh as she watched the badass vampire that she had been terrified of just a couple of nights before walk down her driveway with her childhood parasol.

It would be the last time Marissa would ever feel so lighthearted around Spike.

* * *

"Marissa, hey!"

Marissa was just walking out of her psychology class when she heard her named being called from across the hall. "Oh, hey Vy," she began. She couldn't say anything else before her former classmate quickly shuffled over towards her, hands outstretched as though to receive her.

In all honesty, Marissa would never consider Violet Allen a "friend." The tall redhead was so lanky that it actually hurt to hug her, and her pale blue eyes often caused a chill to go down one's back if she stared at someone for too long. Her short curls were always in a mess, giving her a look of hectic disarray. Despite all of this, she still managed to look dignified and lovely, which may have actually been part of what set Marissa so ill at ease around her.

"All right," Violet told her, clasping a hand on each of Marissa's arms. "I was working during the_ entire _four-day weekend, and it wasn't until my tutoring session this morning that I heard that a certain _some_one has some gossip to relay. So go ahead: relay it. I'm open and receptive."

Trying not to flinch at the pressure Violet was exerting on her injured arm, Marissa pried herself away. "I'm not sure how to take that. Mostly because I don't know what you're talking about. _What_ four-day weekend, and _what_ gossip?"

"Oh, that's right," Violet brought up with a giggle. "You have classes Monday through Friday. I keep forgetting that I'm a grad student now and only go to school three days a week."

Rolling her eyes, Marissa began walking away as she muttered, "That's funny, because _I_ haven't forgotten it." If it hadn't been for the fact that Violet lived in the apartment across from Robbie, Marissa wouldn't have had any contact with her after that disastrous chemistry class two years before. As it stood, she hoped that breaking up with Robbie would at least assure that she and Violet would start drifting apart.

As Violet jogged up behind Marissa, she began to realize that she'd have no such luck. "Oh, come on. I'm only joking. And don't pretend I didn't hear what happened at _Neon_." Seeing Marissa's anxious glance, Violet explained, "Okay, first of all, I heard about you and Robbie. I love him, but I'll admit that it sounds like he's being an idiot. You're _not_ just a summer fling, and I'll be sure to tell him that the next time I see him. Then again, he might have a good reason. Who knows? _I_ haven't dated you, so-"

"Vy, if there's a point, please feel free to get to it."

"The _point_ is," Violet told her with a mischievous grin, "I _also_ heard about the mysterious new guys that came to your rescue. I know you don't have any older brothers, and I heard one of them was English. _And_ that the English guy kicked Robbie's butt in front of everyone. And the other one-now this I _know_ is just a rumor-was wearing an _eye patch_." Laughing as though the object of the latest gossip wasn't standing right besides her, she remarked, "Isn't that just _wild_? Now fess up, Marissa. Help me sift through the true and the false."

Though she hated encouraging the rumor mill, Marissa also saw no point in lying. With a heavy sigh, she admitted, "It's all true. But in my defense, Eye Patch Guy is my cousin. It just so happened that he came to town and we ran into a friend of his. The three of us went to _Neon _to talk, and the next day British Boy decided he didn't like some of the things Robbie was saying to me. I'm not boning anyone new, so I'm sorry to bring a dose of mediocrity into your delicious scandal."

"Really?" Violet asked, apparently finding this just as fascinating as whatever soap opera she had envisioned. "Your cousin's friend got in a fight with Robbie Wilson just to defend your honor? That sounds _so_-"

"If you say romantic, I'm hitting you with my psych text."

"Well, it _is_!" Violet laughed. "He just storms in and sticks up for you, coming in like a white knight. And he's English, to boot. You know, my family's originally from Ireland. I think the Irish accent's a turn-off because all of my relatives have one, but the English-_that's_ something I can get used to! So if you're not boning him and no one else is-"

"This is my face," Marissa told her, pointing towards her countenance. "This is my face suppressing the gag reflex." She couldn't retain the demonstration of repulsion for long, as the sound of Violet's laughter got her to laughing, too. "Seriously, Vy, can you please stop looking at the world through rose-colored lenses? It's not only unrealistic, but it's a little annoying."

"Lies and defamation!" Violet cried out. "It's the _only_ way to look at life. We can't focus on the bad for too long. Especially not people like us. We're a couple of attractive college girls with the entire world waiting for us as soon as we accept our respective degrees. If we don't imagine the best life has to offer, then we're just going to accept the pitfalls as our destinies and not try for the stars."

"You sound like my high school guidance counselor," Marissa said reproachfully, squinting at the bright sunlight as they walked across the quad. "If you keep your head in the clouds, you've just got a farther way to fall."

"Optimism versus pessimism," Violet told her. "The eternal struggle."

Marissa was about to respond when she noticed a third shadow walking behind them. "Okay, so this guy enters a pun-writing contest," said a voice from behind them. The first thing she saw when she turned her head was a familiar black eye patch, and she knew who it was that had picked up their stride. "He sends in ten puns, figuring that at least one of them will win. Unfortunately, no pun in ten did."

Even as he noticed Marissa's redheaded friend gawking at him quizzically, Xander chuckled and looked to Marissa for a reaction. "Get it? No pun intended? No pun... I'll never get my own HBO special, will I?"

"I love you, Alex," Marissa told him. "But you shouldn't quit your day job." Stopping on the quad, she glanced back at Violet and said, "Xander, Violet. Vy, my cousin Xander."

"Eye Patch Guy!" Violet exclaimed.

"Uh, yeah," Xander responded uncertainly. "Right back at ya, Blue-Eyed Girl."

"Long story," Marissa told him. "How was Holbrook?"

"Holbrooky," Xander attested. "Got in bright and early this morning and checked my messages. Got all twenty-five of your missed calls. It's kinda what got me ambling around your campus until I could find you. So... can we talk?"

"Yeah," Marissa said eagerly. Not only was Xander the only person she currently felt absolutely safe with, but a private conversation would be a wonderfully convenient excuse to get away from Violet's Pollyanna tendencies. "Violet, you mind?"

"Not at all," Violet replied, glancing at her wristwatch. "I've got to make it across campus in ten minutes anyway. Time for another foray into Faustian Literature or, as I like to call it, How to Get a Refund When You Sell Your Soul to the Devil." Waving to Xander, she told him, "Nice meeting you. Be sure to talk me up to your English friend who beats people up to defend the honor of those he cares about."

After gaping at Violet as she walked away, Xander shoved his hands into his pockets. "Well, _that_ certainly explains the message I got proclaiming, 'Help, help, Spike's beating up my ex-boyfriend; I need a wooden stake or a samurai sword.'"

"Yeah, uh," Marissa began, "actually, we're past all that. Somehow, Spike and Robbie made nice with one another. Or at least learned to tolerate one another."

"Spike's got an infuriating tendency of doing that," Xander told her, following her as she moved towards a nearby bench. "Just when you think you're about to be vindicated in smashing his face in, he somehow cons you into springing for some fried food and alcohol."

"Oh good," she remarked as they sat down besides one another. "And here I thought that you and Robbie were just a couple of weak-willed sissies. If he hypnotizes _everyone_ into doing that, then at least I know ahead of time that he likes blooming onions and beer... and buffalo wings and boobs, apparently."

"Sounds like Spike, all ri-... buffalo wings and boobs? Where do they sell this and what are the mechanics of it?"

"Don't ask," Marissa mumbled. "I caught him talking to Robbie about food and porn. Just in case he didn't give me a big enough case of the wiggums, I now have nightmares about him giving my ex-boyfriend a talk about the birds and the bees."

"There are worse things to have nightmares about," Xander mentioned. "I once had this dream that Spike was wearing a suit and swinging on a swing set while Buffy was playing in a sandbox and then my dad ripped my heart out." Seeing Marissa's confused glance, he waved it off. "Forget it. Our dreams were being affected by the primal power of the First Slayer at the time, so I totally don't have the hots for Buffy's dead mom or want to see Willow making out with her dead girlfriend." Wrinkling his brow as he acknowledged the ever-deepening hole he was making for himself, he asked, "Okay, so what's been going on with Spike? You wouldn't call just to tell me that he and Robbie fought and made up."

Praying that her cousin wouldn't reveal any disgusting fetishes when she didn't have a barf bag handy, Marissa tried to think of what had been so urgent that she had called Xander so many times. "Oh, right. Spike wanted to speak to you. The ghosts that he told you about... he said something about finding out that they pose a third threat. I don't know what the first two were, but the third one... it's bad, Xander. They're malicious."

"Malicious how?" Xander asked. "Never mind. If Spike knows what's good for him, he wouldn't be talking about this with-"

"They can take over your senses for a while," Marissa revealed. "They pass through you and show you things, horrible things. Spike said that they fill your head with their past sins or heartaches; the one I saw showed me how he really died. It's-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, back up the information train a little," Xander interrupted. "The one _you_ saw? Spike told me these things mostly hang around cemeteries or murder sites; don't tell me you were wandering around a cemetery. Especially not with Spike."

"No, no way, I... yeah," Marissa confessed. "But I-"

"You _know_ I don't like him."

"I don't either!" Marissa proclaimed. "I have this... _thing_ about non-humans."

"I knew you were smart," Xander told her. "Hanging around in the cemetery with a vamp, though-"

"I wasn't hanging around," Marissa explained. "I passed by it and saw the ghost of someone I knew and I thought maybe he needed some help. So I went to him and he attacked me. Showed me that his death wasn't an accident."

Seeing Marissa lower her eyes, Xander regretted having assumed that she was stupid enough to be buddy-buddy with Spike. Putting an arm around her shoulders, he quietly stated, "That's what the pirates meant when they said that dead men tell no tales. They're not _supposed_ to."

"That's almost exactly what Spike said," Marissa informed him, looking up at him. "Maybe the two of you aren't so different after all. Except for the fact that you have absolutely nothing in common and I don't feel the urge to light you on fire every time I see you."

"Good," Xander laughed. "Not being lit on fire is _always_ a good thing. It's right up there with not being scalped or castrated." Bringing her close to him for a half-hug, he then asked, "Okay, so we've got ghosts that can project some pretty nasty images. I'll chalk that up to the list."

"That's not all," Marissa told him. "Spike said something about how the visions can make people go crazy if they can't drag themselves out of it. I can understand what he means, but he also mentioned something about it reminding him of glory, which confused me."

"Glory," Xander groaned. "Great. She's just what we need."

"Glory's a person?"

"Glory's an angry goddess that was kicked out of her hell dimension," Xander answered. "I'm almost sure Buffy killed her, but that never really stopped a baddie from making trouble." After a second's thought, he removed his arm from around Marissa. "It all clicks. If Glory or something like her can work from her home dimension and have the ghosts drive people crazy, she's weakening the opposition. And if a new Hellmouth opens, we can have a war starting in a town filled with people too insane to do anything about it."

Rising to his feet, he took out something that looked like an advanced Bluetooth earpiece from his inner jacket pocket. "I better call Buff; something like this deserves to have a professional Scooby on its trail."

Watching him hook the headset behind his ear and flick it on, Marissa remarked, "Huh. You never struck me as a tech-savvy kind of guy that'd get all those weird accessories for his cell phone."

He glanced at her. "Huh? Oh, this. No, my cell's back home. I keep forgetting to carry it on me. This here is official Slayer merchandise. I keep it on me at all times in case someone calls in impending doom. Offers me a direct line to Buffy, Willow, and Giles."

Slowly nodding, she quietly mentioned, "Sounds like you're more soldier than human these days."

While Xander Harris never made the honor roll in high school, he was empathetic enough to know when he was being resented. Looking down at his cousin, he hesitated a moment before removing the earpiece. "Hey-"

"I mean, it's true," Marissa said with a laugh, trying to take it lightly. "Look at you. You've got to work family visits into a finely-tuned schedule and forget about real people the minute they're out of sight. The only people that exist are your Slayers and the people that make them tick."

"That's _not_ true," Xander protested.

"Yes it _is_," Marissa shot back. In a calmer voice, she added, "And it's okay. It's better than okay. It's really, really great. To be willing to make sacrifices because your life doesn't matter as much as the lives of the entire population of the planet. To not have to care about building relationships with anyone outside of your work environment because personal relationships can slow you down. It's so... uncomplicated."

Xander gave her a long fixed stare before sitting back down besides her. "Marissa, since Anya died, I've dated four women. I liked them all, a lot. Loved a couple of them, even. I watched three of them die. The other one went crazy and had to be put in a coma before she could kill a group of our younger Slayers. She was one of the ones I loved."

"X-... Xander, I-"

"You're right," he continued a little coolly. "I don't _have_ to care. But I do. Because if I stopped caring, I won't be willing to make sacrifices anymore. I won't be willing to put up with that kind of pain. You have no idea how many times I wanted to pack up, leave Will a note, and just disappear." He took a moment to soften his voice before going on. "But I don't. I can't. I'm not going to claim to know anything about fate, but I _do_ know that falling in with Buffy was no accident. And leaving her just because I don't want to hurt, it would be like stabbing her in the back with her favorite stake. She's a Slayer and she can't change that. She _has_ to do what she's doing. Me? I don't have to. And that makes my job even more important."

After a long moment of silence, Marissa slowly nodded. "I'm being lectured here, but I'm not sure I know what the exact moral is."

"I love you, Marissa," Xander told her simply. "Outside of Buff and Will, you're the closest thing I have to a sister. You're more than a friend. You're blood. Even better, you're not a blot to the Harris family name. You're a good kid with a good head on her shoulders. I know it's scary, not knowing where I am or what I'm doing or if I'm even alive. Believe me, I'm scared for me, too. But I go out there to fight the bad guys so that people like you can wake up in the morning and survive to take another False Literature class or whatever. It's not for me and it's not for the rush. It's for you and people like you. Do you get it now, or do I need to get Barney the Dinosaur out here to sing us a little song?"

With a weak smile, Marissa responded, "I get it. I appreciate my sentimentality being mixed with a healthy dose of sarcasm."

"Makes a great chaser," Xander agreed.

Pausing for a moment, Marissa stated, "I'm proud of you, Alexander Harris. No matter what happens here in Woodridge or in Europe, I want you to know that you've got someone here rooting for you. And I hope I end up being worthy of your protection."

With a small smile, Xander replied, "And I'm proud of you, Marissa Harris. Even if I end up being relocated to a remote jungle in the middle of Africa, I'm always going to wonder who was lucky enough to wind up with you in the end." Tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, he finished, "Here's hoping I'll always be able to protect you."

After a moment in which she thought she was about to tear up, she looked away from him. "Okay, maybe that was too much sentimentality and not enough sarcasm."

"That's what I thought," Xander agreed. "Was the hair thing too much?"

"Actually, that strand had been bugging me."

"Good, then I gave it what it deserved."

She let out a small laugh and leaned back in her seat. "I just feel good with you, you know? I know I can probably count the number of times we've hung out on both hands-and maybe on one of my feet-but with Ma on her downward spiral and Uncle Tony sick and most of my friends gone and my ex-boyfriend becoming buddies with a vampire, I'm just not sure where to turn anymore. It's lonely."

As though considering whether or not he should say anything, Xander took a moment before finally saying, "I live in a facility with almost 1,200 girls. I'm the only non-evil guy they come in contact with on a regular basis. I know of at least five of them who definitely have a thing for me, and I can name at least twenty others that probably do. And lots of them are 'experimental,' if you get my drift. I'm living every young man's wildest dream. And yet I completely relate on the lonely thing."

With a mirthless laugh, Marissa commented, "We're both all alone in a crowded room."

"That's because the heroes are always lonely."

"What about the Fantastic Four? The Avengers? The Justice League?"

"I don't exactly see Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, and the Green Lantern sitting down for a game of Parcheesi."

"Actually, I think it happened once."

"Wouldn't be surprised," Xander shrugged. He looked into her eyes before holding up his earpiece. "I should call in and let HQ know what's going on over here. Is there anything else I should know?"

After a hesitation, Marissa mentioned, "I think Spike's in trouble."

"He's always in trouble."

"No, I...," Marissa trailed off. She knew nothing about Spike's situation or about how bad his current troubles were, but she thought it was only right that she pass along the warning he had given her. "He told me last night that I should stay away from him. He thinks something's after him and that it'll try to get to him through the people he associates with. He also said... he doesn't want me or my 'kin' getting hurt. I'm assuming he meant you."

Xander blinked, stunned. "No kidding? Spike said that?"

Marissa nodded, then thought about it for a moment before adding, "And he's been talking to Robbie. I don't know what about, but he mentioned something about having business with some of my friends. Since Rob's the only one I know he's met... I don't want to think about Spike dragging Robbie into anything. Outside of organized sports, Robbie's a pushover and fairly impressionable."

"Have you talked to him?"

"Not since the incident with him and Spike at _Neon_ on Sunday," she replied. "I've tried calling him to tell him that Spike's not exactly good news, but he hasn't been picking up his phone. I'd visit him, but he's going through something right now and made it clear that he doesn't want to see me."

"You still care about him, don't you?" The question was mostly rhetorical. Seeing Marissa's downcast eyes, Xander reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a notepad and pen. "Here," he told her as he handed them to her. "Give me his address. Assuming the Eye Patch Guy rumors haven't hit him yet, he doesn't know who I am. I'll visit him tonight and see if I can intimidate him enough to convince him to stay away from the bleached mosquito."

Looking up at Xander, Marissa asked in unveiled surprised, "You'd do that? Don't you have some other stuff to do? Some Slayerific duties or something?"

"Once I put a call in to Buff and co.," Xander told her, "someone will be officially put on the job to handle it. I might be assigned team leadership, but until we witness a direct threat on a major level, there'd be no reason for me to be on the job 24/7. I can spare thirty minutes to mentor a troubled teen about who he should be friends with."

"Actually, Robbie's twenty-two."

With a shrug, Xander responded, "Like I said, guys in their late teens and early twenties are basically all the same. Now give me his address and some directions. I'll pay him a visit and make sure that he's not hanging around with any of my old partners in crime." With a smirk and an utterance of thanks, Marissa obliged him.

Xander had no idea that Spike's wouldn't be the only familiar face he'd see that night.

* * *

Robbie answered his front door only a few seconds after the doorbell rang.

Spike blinked at him in astonishment. "I think that's the first time in ages that someone was actually waiting by the door for me," he remarked. "Don't get your hopes up too high, Hercules; I like my fare a little more feminine."

"Not funny," Robbie answered, moving to allow Spike enough room to come in. "The sun set over an hour ago. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten."

"Do you _not_ look at almanacs at all?" Spike asked without moving. "You should make it a habit from now on. The lunar cycle isn't set to have any affect on you until twenty-four hours before the full moon, and then again twenty-four hours afterwards. The moon rises at 8:16 tomorrow, so I made it here with over an hour to spare. Presuming this Jordy boy of yours doesn't live several towns over, we're doing all right on the time factor."

"No sire," Robbie reminded him crossly as he grabbed his corduroy jacket from the sofa. Putting it on, he added, "I'm kinda feeling things out on my own here. This isn't like the _World of Darkness _games, where vampires have a sire and werewolves have an alpha and mages have... whatever it is they have. Never actually played a mage."

"Oh hell," Spike muttered, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. "Why do I always happen to fall in with insane role-players or pop culture fanatics? Worse yet, you're a combination of _both_."

Robbie shot him a look. "If you're so turned off with the idea, why are you standing there and willing to be my Obi Wan?" Seeing the glare Spike shot back at him, Robbie cleared his throat and amended, "My mentor. I meant mentor. Actually, now that I think of it, what _are_ you doing standing there? Is that whole thing about vampires needing an invitation true, or do you just not want to get that close to me in case I... y'know... turn?"

Spike immediately laughed at the question. "What, afraid of you? You go feral on me and I've got enough muscle and experience to knock you halfway across California, mate. I need an invite, yeah, so just let me in before the neighbors perk their ears."

"Do I have to say a special incantation or-"

"Just make it clear I'm bloody welcome, okay?"

"Okay, fine," Robbie said defensively. "You're welcome. I hereby invite you in. Wipe your feet first, okay? I just mopped the floor a couple of weeks ago." Watching Spike simply come in and throw himself down on the nearby armchair, Robbie remarked, "I think we're going to have to work on our communication problem."

"Have we got enough time to spare for a beer?"

"That right there," Robbie told him. "That's kinda proof that one of us needs to sharpen our listening skills."

"I can hear your heartbeat pounding in your chest because you're afraid you're gonna turn at any minute and don't know if you'll be able to control the beast this time," Spike replied sourly. "You just want to hurry up and be safe in your happy little dog cage."

"We can always make a happy little cage for you, Spike," said a surprising voice from the still-open door. "Then you can be neighbors."

With an exaggerated eyeroll, Spike groaned out, "Oh _bugger_!" Turning around in his seat, he glared at Xander as the one-eyed man gazed appraisingly around the small apartment. "Pity _you_ don't need a direct invite. I'd tell Hercules there to slam the door in your face and leave you be until Kingdom come."

"Which will be when?" Xander asked. "Half-past now-ish?" Looking at Robbie, he stepped into the apartment and offered his hand to shake. "Robbie Wilson, right? Name's Xander. The guy sitting in your armchair's the very devil I was going to speak of."

"Xander," Robbie murmured, warily shaking his hand. "You Marissa's cousin?"

"I've got that honor, yeah," came the reply. "She was worried about you, wanted me to tell you to be careful around a certain fanged friend of ours. But after overhearing the tail-end of this conversation, methinks I get the reason why you don't want her getting too close to you."

"Patch using his noodle?" Spike sarcastically marveled.

"Can it, Bleach Bottle," Xander told him, a little too sharply. "The world's changed since the last time we crossed paths, so I can't afford to waste time with your one-liners. We're talking lycanthropy with a possible hint of something else, if I heard right. After dealing with ghost problems all weekend and getting nowhere, I might as well try to get to the bottom of this little side project as soon as I can."

"Ghost problems?" Spike asked. "I thought you were off visiting relations."

After an almost undetectable pause, Xander replied, "I had to tell the family _some_thing, right?"

Spike smirked again. "Oh, lovely. So you mean to say that you lied to the pup and once again told the truth to your enemy? I don't think the world's changed that much at all, Harris." At Xander's hostile glare, Spike repressed a chuckle and rose to his feet. "Right then. Let's get going before Hercules here goes furry."

When Xander asked where they were going, Robbie replied, "I've got a friend. The guy who bit me, actually. His cousin's like some kind of werewolf guru or something like that, so Spike thinks that talking to him will help figure out why I'm not like normal werewolves."

"Nothing says fun times like hanging out with a mortal enemy and an atypical wolfie," Xander commented. "Mind if I tag along? Might as well make a report of _all_ of the supernatural happenings in the area while I'm here. I'm sure there'd be a few people over at Slayer Central who'd love to make charts and stuff out of all this."

"Sure," Robbie responded. "But, uh... what's Slayer Central?"

* * *

"I'm... still not sure how much of this to believe," Robbie murmured as they approached Jordy's house.

"Said the werewolf to the vampire," Xander joked. "It's a lot to take in, sure, but let's face it. At this point, everyone already knows about the existence of dark forces in the world. Consider yourself one of the lucky few who know the whole story surrounding Sunnydale."

"Unless you believed that earthquake bollocks that the government thought up," Spike remarked bitterly. "They didn't even give it a decent rating on the Richter scale, if my memory serves me right. What, a five or a six? Anyone who believed that an earthquake that size could completely obliterate a town the size of Sunnydale isn't playing with a full deck."

"People believed it," Robbie brought up. "I mean, I think they did, anyway. I think they just didn't want to think about it too hard. Lots of weird stories made their way here from Sunnydale, so... I dunno. It just seems so stupid that we'd actually fall for some spoon-fed BS like that."

"Proves that you're human," Xander replied. "Well, _mostly _human, at any rate. Trust me, the first time vamps nearly took over Sunnydale back in '97, I thought for sure that everyone would be freaking out over it. Turns out, they made themselves believe some stupid rumor about gang wars and PCP."

"Sunnydale High wasn't exactly chock-full of Einsteins, now was it?" Spike sarcastically smirked.

"Bite me, Spike."

"Not the wisest of comebacks to use on a vampire, even one with a soul."

"Normal vampires don't have souls?" Robbie asked.

"Only two of them I've ever heard of," Xander answered. "One's dead and the other's up and kicking. Thing is, up until a few nights ago, I thought it was the other way around." With a sideways glance at Spike, he added, "Way to drop a bomb."

"Always _was_ the explosive type," Spike replied. To Robbie, he said, "You'll learn that souls mean a lot in the supernatural community. All vamps are hybrids, since we're demons living inside a human body. Thing with me is, I managed to earn back my human soul, which is something no other vamp ever cared to do on purpose. So while I've got the powers and urges of the demon lurking inside of me, I've got that annoying little Jiminy Cricket buzzing in my ear any time I get the itch to do something naughty."

"Oh," Robbie murmured, slowly absorbing all of this. After a moment, it seemed as though the information began making sense in his head. "Okay, I get that," he told them, beginning up the walkway of a small house. "But then, what does that mean for me? Werewolves are kinda the same, right? We're humans, but the demon comes out once a month. So do I lose my soul, or does it just take a snooze somewhere in my subconscious?"

"Truth is, we don't know much about lycanthropy," Xander told him grimly. "It's not purely a supernatural phenomenon, so it can't be directly linked with mysticism. Some refer to it as a paranormal virus that can be controlled and regulated. Others claim that there's a certain psychology behind it, surrounding the dichotomy between civilized man and the primal beast within."

"Sounds like a college dissertation," Spike snorted.

"I never went to college," Xander reminded him bluntly. "I graduated high school before a snake-like demon destroyed it and then went out and became a productive member of society. Let's list off _your_ accomplishments, shall we?"

"Saved the world," Spike told him.

"Same here," Xander replied.

"Died doing it."

"Lost an eye."

Ignoring the discourse between the two of them as it became more heated and immature, Robbie went up the porch steps of Jordy's house and rang the bell. He listened as Xander heavily ascended the steps and moved besides him. "Heh," Xander laughed quietly. "I was just thinking, the only person I knew who could control his werewolf-ism was a friend of mine from high school. He explained it to me once, but I hadn't thought that the information would be important then. Something about how it's like a disease and certain charms and chants are like taking antibiotics for it. Still, when he _did_ transform, he reverted to being your standard drooling, man-eating monster; no consciousness at all."

Stepping up behind them, Spike asked, "That was the bloke that turned Willow gay, wasn't it?"

"You don't _turn_ people gay, Spike," Xander replied wearily.

"_I_ don't," Spike chuckled. "And from what I recall, _you_ were doing all right with her. It wasn't until the little mongrel had a go that she started batting for the other team. Not that I fault her, of course. He _was_ a bit effeminate."

At that moment, the door opened. Initially, Robbie didn't recognize the person who answered the door, but then he remembered the slight man from his brief encounter with him the month before. "Oh hey," Robbie told him. "You're Daniel Osbourne, right? Jordy's cousin? I'm Robbie Wilson, the guy he told you about." Seeing that the pale man was looking past him with a stunned expression, Robbie asked, "Uh... he _did_ tell you about me, right?"

"Well, I'll be damned," Spike breathed.

"_There's_ an idea," replied the man better known as Oz. Without another word, he quickly disappeared into the house, looking as though he was racing towards something.

"Was that who I just _thought_ that was?" Xander asked, astonished.

"This 'speaking of the devil' nonsense is really beginning to grate on my nerves," Spike muttered.

Going inside, Robbie looked around. "Dan? Dan, what's up?" Looking to Xander, he asked, "Why do I get the idea I'm missing something?"

"Bright notion," Xander remarked, also stepping inside. Just then, a teenager who liked like a younger, blonder, and taller version of Oz came bounding down the stairs, confused by the commotion. "Jordy," Xander groaned. The boy in question turned to look at him inquiringly. An exasperated hand to his forehead, Xander moaned, "Man, I _knew_ I heard that name somewhere before. You're Oz's cousin."

"Hello?" Spike asked, still at the door, unable to come in. "What about me?"

"You know Oz?" Jordy asked Xander. To Robbie, he queried, "Both of these guys friends of yours?"

"Yeah," Robbie replied, baffled over who "Oz" was.

Jordy moved to the door and motioned Spike inside. "You wanna come on in and tell me what you guys said or did to actually get Oz riled up over something?"

As Spike walked through the door in relief, Robbie pieced together that Oz must be a nickname for Daniel Osbourne and asked, "How'd you know he was riled up?"

"You can smell it," Spike replied. "Strong emotions got a certain scent to them."

"Jordy," came Oz's calm voice from the next room. "Move." The four men in the entrance foyer turned to see Oz standing at the threshold of the dining room. In his hands he held a crossbow that seemed far too big and exaggerated for him. It was poised directly at Spike's heart.

"What the-?" Spike blinked, quickly dodging behind Xander and Robbie. "Where in the bloody hell does everyone get crossbows from? Can someone at least come at me with a poleax or something original once in a while?"

"Get out of the way, Robbie," Oz spoke coldly.

"Oz," Xander started carefully. "Relax. You remember me, right?"

"Hey Xander," Oz said without moving his eyes from his target. "You'd better move, too."

"Oh, if he's willing to go through both of you to get to me, I'm screwed," Spike bemoaned.

"No one's going to go through anyone to get to anyone," Xander proclaimed. "Oz, listen up, man. I still have the same reaction to Spike, but things have changed. He's not evil anymore."

"Yeah," Oz replied uncertainly, slightly lowering the crossbow. "I remember the chip."

"What chip?" Robbie asked.

"The chip that was implanted in Spike's head to keep him from hurting humans," Xander answered.

"You mean the chip I don't have anymore?" Spike inquired.

"You don't have the chip?!" Oz nearly cried out, once again raising the weapon.

"Whoa, hey, put that down!" Xander shouted. "_Not_ the time to go flying off the handle, o Zen buddy of mine. When I say Spike's not evil, I don't mean he's got something rammed into his brain to hold him back. He's got a soul now, just like Angel did."

"A soul?" Oz asked. "A vampire can't just wake up one morning and have a soul."

"Technically," Spike offered, "vampires don't wake up in the morning at all. As for the soul thing, it's a long and interesting tale, and if you don't try to deprive me of my unlife, I'll be sure to give you every little detail." After a moment's pause, he added, "Well, maybe not _every_ detail, since I doubt Buffy would appreciate me sharing certain information."

"As would I," Xander groaned.

"Buffy?" Oz spoke the name as though he had almost forgotten who she was. Looking at everyone else in the room, including his perplexed cousin and Jordy's disturbed friend, Oz thought about it long and hard. If Xander said that Spike had a soul, then he'd have to believe that Spike had a soul. Xander would never side with a vampire. Unless Xander was now evil, in which case there were going to be a _whole _lot of problems.

"Crossbow down," Jordy told him, warily approaching him and holding a hand up. "Robbie says that these guys are his friends, and at least one of them is your friend, too. I don't know what's the deal with this Spike guy, but we need to get Robbie locked up before he turns. After that, you _did_ promise that you'd try to answer some questions for them."

Oz glanced at Jordy before looking at Robbie. "Yeah," he said quietly, putting the weapon down. "I know." Seeing Spike's relieved expression as he emerged from behind Xander and Robbie, Oz quickly put the weapon back up. "But just so we're clear, my reflexes have gotten a _lot_ faster over the years. Any sudden moves, and I'm going to do what should've been done years ago."

Having stopped in his tracks as soon as the crossbow was pointed at him, Spike asked, "_Why_ is everyone finding it so difficult to believe that I'm not evil?"

"I don't know," Oz replied blankly. "Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you once knocked Xander out and kidnapped him and my girlfriend, trying to get her to use her magic to help you?"

"Oh yeah," Spike replied with a smile. "Isn't that the time that she and Xander snogged in my lair?"

Narrowing his eyes, Oz let out a growl. Spike was about to pile on another snide remark, but stopped when he noticed that the eyes that were glaring at him weren't Oz's typical light blue, but a deep black. He found himself biting back his words as he realized that Oz suddenly seemed a little hairier than he had a moment ago.

Shaking his head, Oz closed his eyes for a moment, as though needing to get his bearings straight. When he opened them, his face was as hairless and his eyes were as clear as they always were. "You _don't_ want to test me, Spike. If you didn't have Xander vouching for you, I'd be washing your blood out of my aunt's carpet."

Putting the weapon down once and for all, he looked at Robbie and cocked his head in the direction of another door, motioning for him to follow him. After a glance back at Spike, Robbie followed Oz as he opened the door and led him down into the basement. Jordy soon followed suit.

Glancing at Spike, Xander remarked, "You know, a 'thank you' would be nice."

"So would a new Harley," Spike bitterly replied as he followed after the others.

Alone in the foyer, Xander sighed. In his best British accent, he stated, "'Gee, thanks Xander. I really don't want to picture Oz scraping my bloody giblets up from the floor. I like my innards just where they are, and they'll stay that way, thanks to your confidence in me.'" His hands in his pocket, he grumbled quietly to himself as he joined the others in the basement.

Spike sniffed the air, unimpressed. "Certainly not a palace," he brought up. "But then, it's meant to be little more than a kennel." Spying the bass and electric guitars in one corner along with the amps and speakers, he muttered, "For more than one type of dog, by the looks of it."

Oz led Robbie to the torn green blanket hanging from one side of the wall. Pulling it away, he revealed the large steel cage that Robbie had spent his first transformation in. Unlocking it, he told the younger boy, "After Jordy told me that you seemed in control of yourself even when you were in your wolf form, I brought my old air mattress over here and plugged in a small television. Not homey, but I figured you might as well be comfortable since we know that you're not going to tear everything apart."

"We _think_ that," Robbie corrected him, taking off his jacket and draping it over the banister. "That's what I brought my occult specialist here for."

"Never would've thought Xander would make much of an occultist," Oz said.

"Not him," Robbie told him, taking off his shirt. "I only just met him when we were on our way over. Spike's the guy who recommended coming over and asking all the questions."

"Spike?" Oz blurted out in disbelief.

With a smug smile, Spike commented, "And you were about to stake me."

"It's been a long time since I've seen a vampire," Jordy mentioned, sitting down in a patched-up green beanbag chair. "And we're not staking you because you've got a soul?"

"I know," Xander scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Evil's still evil, isn't it?"

"A soul's not evil by nature," Jordy told him, almost as though scolding him. "It all depends on what you do with it. Werewolves are violent killers, but Oz and I learned how to control our wolf forms and we keep people like Robbie locked up so they won't do any damage. Other people would just load up on silver bullets and kill us. We've got souls, but I guess those people just believe that evil's still evil."

After a moment of silence in which he relished Xander's sheepish expression, Spike grinned and remarked, "I like this one. Good head on his shoulders."

"That's because the nights of the full moon are the only nights that he's sober," Oz scowled. "We learned the hard way that the anti-transformation charms don't work so well when you're drunk or stoned. Still got the scar to prove it." He looked at Robbie, who was laying his shirt and jeans by the stairway. "If you need the bathroom or anything, we've still got a few minutes left, I think."

Standing in only his boxers, Robbie shivered as he staggered towards the cage. "I'm good. Just glad you put a blanket in there this time."

"Last month was August," Jordy reminded him as Oz locked the cage door behind him. "Besides, most of us don't feel the cold when we're in our beast form. We don't feel much of anything... except for everything."

"Okay, did anyone else just get lost there?" Xander queried.

"Werewolves are just furbags full of instinct and animalistic impulses," Spike explained, moving a plastic chair to where he could keep an eye on Robbie. Sitting down, he continued, "Their senses are heightened even more than a vampire's, but it's all so much to take in that it doesn't really register as anything, forcing them to try harder just to get any decent bit of satisfaction. That's why they don't usually just bite the victim; they rip into his intestines. They don't just eat; they feast. They don't just fight; they kill. They don't just mate; they..."

"Destroy," Jordy said thinly.

Everyone turned their eyes to look at the contemplative boy sitting on the beanbag chair. Robbie noticed that he had something that looked like a pale blue rosary laced across the fingers of his right hand, and he seemed to be thumbing the beads thoughtfully. While Robbie had never thought to find out more about Jordy until the incident the month before, he suddenly found himself wishing he knew what was going through his mind.

Had he done something to a girl? To a girl he cared about? Or, perhaps worse, to a girl he didn't even know? Robbie found himself thinking about Marissa, and realized that he really had made the right choice in letting her go. Maybe he was selfish for not wanting to skip town entirely, but he was at least smart enough to distance himself from her. If she didn't ostracize or kill him because of his lycanthropy, then he'd likely end up doing worse to her if he managed to get free one night.

"Right then," Spike said, breaking the silence. "Who's up for popcorn?"

* * *

Callous as the comment may have been, it did work to get things rolling.

Not long after the statement, Robbie began transforming. Xander flinched at the tortured sounds that came from the cage. Oz, who had closed the curtain halfway to allow Robbie some semblance of privacy, closed his eyes and bowed his head, almost as though in prayer. Jordy hadn't shifted from his meditative position. As for Spike, he had moved to lean against the wall, watching Robbie throughout the entire transformation process.

Once the handsome young man was turned into a cowering beast with shaggy brown fur, Spike quietly called, "Hercules?" Seeing no response other than the ragged breathing coming from the werewolf, Spike decided to change his approach. "Robbie? You hear me?" After repeated attempts at getting Robbie's attention, Spike looked to Xander and shrugged. "Wheel's spinning, hamster's dead."

"I'm not a hamster," Robbie suddenly said in a muffled voice. "Just exhausted."

Pleasantly surprised, Spike turned back to look at Robbie and crouched down. Robbie was lying facedown on the floor, and was still somewhat recognizable even with the fangs, slightly protruded snout, and coarse fur. While far from an improvement as far as appearance went, Spike was impressed at the humanity he still saw within Robbie's light brown eyes. "As I live and breathe," he remarked, dumbfounded. "Well, not breathe, of course, because I don't do that. And I'm not really alive, either. But tonight's not about me. It's all you."

Looking up, Spike saw that Oz was gazing down at Robbie's wolf form, apparently perplexed. "So, let's see if you earn your title of werewolf guru, yeah? Got any inkling as to why our boy isn't clawing at the bars and trying to rip my face off?"

After a moment, Oz slowly began to shake his head. "I can make a few guesses, but nothing solid." Running a hand through his hair, he turned to look at Xander. "What ever happened to Giles? We could use him right about now."

Xander looked like he was about to make a reply, but thought better of what he had to say. "Currently indisposed," was his only answer.

"Forget the librarian," Spike told them. "God, haven't either of you got brains of your own?" To Oz, he said, "Let's hear your guesses, then. It's better than nothing."

"First answer a question," Oz replied. "Why are you so interested?"

"What?" Spike asked, feigning ignorance. "It's what I do. I'm good now, remember?"

"So you just run around doing good deeds for strangers without any hidden motives?"

Trying to work out what he should say, Spike pointed to Robbie, then to Xander. "He's a friend of _his_ friend. And his friends happen to be my friends, too. Well, one of them, at least. Maybe two. All right, three; I didn't mind Red as much as I let on."

"So what he's saying," Xander piped up, "is that Robbie's a friend of a friend's friend. Which _totally_ explains why he's in such a charitable mood." Spike was about to agree with him when a look in Xander's face proved that he was being sarcastic. "I was wondering it, too. Marissa told me that you were about to beat the crap out of Robbie at _Neon_; the about-face is about as suspicious as-"

"As suspicious as evil ghosts popping up in the cemetery?" Spike interrupted.

"You think Robbie's lycanthropy's linked to the ghosts?" Xander asked incredulously.

"No, that's bollocks," Spike jeered. "With that much malevolent energy about, I'd expect that to make his beast even _more_ feral. That's the point. Like I told Hercules the other day, normal werewolves are completely out-of-control strays that should be shot on sight. But a werewolf who can actually think coherently enough to use his transformation for his own needs... come on, I'm not the only one thinking it here. He can either help destroy the world or help save it."

"You intend to use Robbie in your own personal army against these things?" Xander asked with a trace of anger. "Against whatever it is that might be coming? Are you crazy? He's just a kid!"

"He's in his twenties. How old were _you_ when you first met the Slayer?" Spike asked. Seeing Xander quiet down, he went on. "How old was the Slayer when she was first told about her destiny? And how old are your current Slayers that you send out to fight demons?"

"That's different," Xander argued. "They're _Slayers_. They were chosen to do what they're doing."

"And how do we know that he isn't?" Spike brought up, pointing to Robbie. "Look, Patch, I don't claim to be a fortune teller or to have read any ancient prophecies lately, but I've seen enough working with both your group and Angel's crew to know that sometimes, things happen for a reason. Of all the werewolves in all the world, this boy gets bit by Oz's kin. Of all the people in all the world for him to have been dating, he was making time with _your_ kin. And now we learn that Hercules here can shape-shift without losing even a shred of his humanity? Something's up. Don't tell me that it doesn't feel like the Powers That Be have been pulling at least a _few_ strings, eh?"

"So what you're saying," Oz tried to work out, "is that you think he's somehow connected to all of us, and it's meant that he help stop an upcoming apocalypse?"

"I don't want to save the world," Robbie groaned weakly from the floor, his words muddled because of new snout. "I just want the world to stop spinning."

Crouching down besides him, Oz sympathetically said, "Yeah, I know it's nauseating. It's like that for me too for the first few minutes after I turn. I put some water bottles over there in the cooler in the corner. They usually help me."

As Robbie crawled off towards the cooler, Spike gazed down at Oz in shock. "Wait... _you're_ conscious during your transformations too?"

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you tell us that?"

"You didn't ask," Oz replied, rising to his feet. Whereas most people would have said it to be humorous, Oz was simply being matter-of-fact. "I told you I'd give you my theories after you told me why you were interested. Surprisingly enough, your reasons actually sound somewhat noble."

"Not evil anymore," Spike remarked. "Jesus, how many times do I have to say it?"

"Probably another hundred," Xander told him. Looking to Oz, he said, "So, how about a round of 'The Many Adventures of Oz the Werewolf?'"

Oz crossed his arms over his chest and looked around the room, almost as though to make sure they were alone. "I started having control of myself while in my wolf state about two years ago. It was disorienting at first, but then I realized that I transcended the boundaries of my transformations. It was rumored that few werewolves managed to achieve that state-it's kind of like the werewolf version of reaching Enlightenment. I decided against telling anybody, mostly because I don't even like talking about the fact that I _am_ a werewolf, never mind a rare transcended one."

"Never know what kind of crazy werewolf sects might want you to join their special cult," Xander commented jokingly.

"Exactly," Oz replied seriously. "After hearing about everything that happened in Sunnydale-bits and pieces, at any rate-I knew I couldn't be too careful about who knows about the wolf in me. When Jordy told me about his friend's condition, I was understandably a little concerned."

"Because there's no way a werewolf could be 'born' with what took you years to achieve," Spike mentioned.

"Right," Oz answered. "Except... even _my_ transcendence seemed a little rushed. Less than ten years when it usually takes people three or four times that long, if they achieve it at all? I had to see it for myself to make sure, and now... I'm still not sure I believe it."

As Oz trailed off and looked towards Robbie, Xander's gaze turned to the still-meditating Jordy. "Common link much?"

"Your cousin's the one that turned you, too?" Spike asked. When Oz nodded, Spike was confused. "But Robbie told me something about how Jordy loses control of himself easily. If this all stems from him, why can't he get a hold of himself?"

"Couple of theories," Oz responded. "One is that it's a 'generational' trait. Kind of like a dormant gene that a parent can pass on to a child even if he doesn't personally possess it. Jordy bit me when he was just a kid, so maybe the ability took some time to gestate. That's why, now that Jordy's older and bit Robbie while in wolf form, Robbie was able to tap into that instantaneously. The other theory goes off what I said before. Jordy's not exactly the role model for clean living, so that could have a negative impact on his own ability to advance."

"What if it's not just Jordy's 'line'?" Xander brought up. "What if werewolves are just evolving?"

"We would have heard about it," Oz refuted. "The werewolf community's pretty tight. While one or two people might keep quiet about something as big as transcending, there's no way that a bunch of newbie wolves could make that big leap without raising a few eyebrows."

"Maybe it's the opposite," Spike murmured.

"You're saying that werewolves are _de_volving?" Oz queried.

"I don't know _what_ I'm saying anymore," Spike grumbled, moving to take up his seat once again. "Maybe we really _could_ make some bloody use out of that librarian." He put his head in his hands as he tried to work through their problem. "There are two possibilities. Either Hercules' so-called 'transcendence' is happening because the Powers That Be decree it, or it isn't. And if it isn't, that branches off into other possibilities. Someone get a whiteboard and write this all down."

"Or we could just remember it," Xander replied.

"That's not what Angel would've done," Spike told him.

"Since when did you care about what Angel would've done?" Xander asked jeeringly.

"Since the man died to make sure _I'd_ live!" Spike blurted out.

He immediately snapped his mouth shut. He hadn't wanted to say that. Now there would be questions, and he'd have to force himself to go through explanations. He'd have to explain about the Shanshu prophecy, which foretold that a vampire with a soul would one day fulfill his destiny and become mortal again. He'd have to discuss the line of bad choices Angel had made near the end, resulting in the death and betrayal of most of his allies. He'd have to tell them that the Senior Partners had tried to get Angel to commit one final sin before he was officially theirs, body and soul; they'd get him to personally kill one of his most surprisingly loyal teammates: Spike.

It was supposed to have been a difficult decision, a decision that would drive Angel insane. After manipulating Angel into doing their dirty work, they thought that this last deed would break him. There would be no way that Angel would have allowed himself to go through all of that suffering without regaining his mortality as a reward. There was no way Angel would choose Spike over his own future. Once he killed Spike, Angel would officially belong to the Senior Partners, mortal or not.

Spike, broken and bloodied, had been forced to kneel in front of his grandsire, who looked just as haggard. After looking Angel in the eye, Spike had smiled grimly at the sight of him releasing the wooden stake from his spring-activated wrist mechanism. Raising the stake, Angel uttered what would be his last words before killing himself, upsetting everything that the Senior Partners had planned.

"So assuming it isn't these Powers That Be," Oz broke in. Spike wiped his hand over his face, as though just waking up from a bad dream. Oz either didn't care about the emotional turmoil the vampire felt, or he chose to ignore it in favor of staying on task. He always _was_ one of the brighter bulbs in the Scooby box. "Which, I'll assume, is a euphemism for something that someone will explain to me later. At any rate, this means that something's going down that's affecting either Jordy's contagion factor or all of the new werewolves."

"Wait a minute," Xander realized. "Demons were here first, weren't they? And werewolves traditionally symbolize the balance of man versus his inner beast. What if this inner beast is his inner _demon_? That would imply that all humans have a demon side to them, which would account for vampires. Being sired doesn't necessarily mean that a demon is being introduced into the body, but that the soul's being extracted-"

"-and all that's left is the demon," Oz concluded.

"Exactly," Xander continued excitedly. "So what if lycanthropy's the same deal? You get bit, and suddenly your innate demon side is triggered by the full moon. As the generations pass, that transformation gets stronger and doesn't just occur on the physical level, but affects the thoughts and actions of the victim."

"But in the case of this apparent devolution," Oz went on, "the human and demonic aspects are being separated. The human's not evolving into a purer demon, but instead, the demon's devolving back into something resembling a mere human."

"Eventually, werewolves might just be phased out," Xander gasped. "It could be nature's cure for lycanthropy."

As Oz and Xander stared at one another in awe, Spike raised an eyebrow at the two of them. Wishing that someone had listened to him and wrote everything down on a whiteboard so he could better follow their train of thought, he remarked, "When the hell did the two of you become demonologists?"

"About two minutes ago," Oz replied.

"Actually, it's kinda my job now," Xander stated proudly. "It pays a lot better than construction."

"Look," Spike told them as he stood, "you _do_ realize that everything you're saying goes against what most facts tell us, right? A vampire drains the blood of a victim and then needs to feed it some of his own blood if he wants it to turn vamp; that's where the introduction of that demon comes in. As for werewolves, you said yourself that no one fully understands lycanthropy. Still, I'm willing to bet that it's less about demons and more about reverting back to the time when men were little more than animals looking for a quick bite and an easy shag." Shrugging, he remarked, "Nice theory. Bet it makes the brainy birds all damp in their pants to hear you talk about evolution and cures and all of that. All it gave me was a headache."

Both Xander and Oz looked disappointed by the rationale in Spike's words. Though he really was simply playing Devil's advocate to keep their options open, Spike realized that he almost indefinitely refuted what otherwise could have been a demonological breakthrough. Still, he was no expert on the matter, and he hoped he remembered this conversation later so he could follow up on it.

"Then that leaves these Powers That Be," Oz murmured. "Which are _what_ exactly?"

"I've got a vague idea, but no specifics," Xander replied. "Heck, up until this weekend I thought Spike was dead for the past five years. I'm lucky if I understand _half_ of the things he rants about these days."

"Be thankful you don't," Spike told him. "The last Big Bad I faced down made sure to clean up after itself real good. Basically told me, 'Oops, sorry, we've got an apocalypse scheduled in another dimension. We killed all your friends and took over this city, but we'll make sure you're taken care of until we're ready to come back and finish what we started.'"

"Wolfram and Hart, right?" Xander asked. With a small degree of annoyance in his voice, he remarked, "We've got a file on them about two miles long. Our precogs already set the date of their proposed apocalypse, mostly because their receptionist or someone called them and told them when it was rescheduled. Arrogant bunch of chowderheads, aren't they?"

Confused, Oz broke in with, "Right, so, Powers That Be, anyone?"

"Exactly what they sound like," Spike responded. "Though I like to call them by various nicknames, including the Powers That Twiddle Their Thumbs and the Powers That Are About As Helpful As A Wet Noodle. They're supposed to make sure that the scales are always balanced so that good comes out on top, but they like doing things the hard way. Sometimes they cut us a break, like leave the right prophecy lying where we could find it or bestow someone with powerful visions. Unfortunately, they have a wicked sense of humor, since the prophecy usually tells us that the world's set to end five minutes ago or the visions are so powerful that they ultimately kill the person who had them." Stopping, he looked up at the two former classmates. "By the way, do you know about...?"

"About what?" Xander asked.

"Cordelia?"

Thinking about it for a moment, Oz queried, "She didn't take Angel's death so well, did she?"

"Actually," Spike answered, "she took it pretty well, being dead herself and all." Seeing Xander and Oz's dumbfounded expressions, Spike winced. "God, that was crude. I didn't even manage to wrench a tasteless joke out of the situation."

"Cordy's... gone?" Xander whispered.

"About four years ago, mate," Spike replied. "Not too long after I came back from the dead. On the plus side, I can say with confidence that she really _is_ in a better place. The Powers decided that they put her through enough nasty experiences and went and made her a Higher Being."

"A Higher Being?" Oz asked. "Is that like being a goddess?"

"Yeah," Spike responded.

Xander's shocked sadness gave way to something that sounded horribly amused. "Cordelia Chase is a goddess? Wow, she must be reveling in her new position."

"Pretty boring, I'd imagine," Spike said, looking up towards the ceiling as though expecting to see Cordelia. "Sitting up there for all eternity, watching us make one stupid mistake after the other. Who'd want to watch the likes of _us_ forever? Though I like to think that she enjoys the various shower scenes in the program."

"You guys are friends with a goddess," Robbie brought up from his cage, "but you can't figure out how to get me back to normal?" Spike, Oz, and Xander turned their heads to look at the werewolf. He had managed to seat himself on the cooler and was finishing off what looked like his fourth bottle of water. Tossing the empty bottle on the floor with the others, he stared at the three of them reproachfully. "If you're the good guys, why don't you try pulling some strings and calling in some favors?"

"Quite frankly," Spike told him, "if I'm calling in _any_ favor to the Powers, it'll be to make sure I don't find myself in yet another hell dimension when I finally see my end. Trading in your lycanthropy-which, by the by, doesn't look at _all_ dangerous-for your happy little 'normal' life isn't on my list of priorities."

"What he means to say," Xander broke in, "is that we don't exactly have a phone number or anything for any of our friends in high places. Short of some direct divine intervention in the form of a helpful e-mail, there's not much we can do except continue our research over at Slayer Central."

"Unfortunately, lycanthropy's a lifelong disease," Oz told Robbie. "The good thing about your current situation is that you're well on your way to controlling it. We'll keep you here for the night, and you should come back tomorrow a few hours before the full moon. I'll start teaching you how to control your physical transformation. With the proper treatment, you can lead a perfectly normal life."

"It's like an STD without the bonus of getting laid," Spike elaborated with a smirk.

* * *

"You sure Robbie's okay down there with Jordy?" Xander asked Oz. "He looked a little out of it."

"He'll be fine," Oz replied, closing the door to the basement after Xander and Spike followed him out. "Since he turned last month, Jordy's been careful about his chants. We thought he had it under control, but last month proved that you could never be too careful."

"So you took refuge here too, then?" Spike queried, apparently disinterested. "Everyone from Sunnydale's been popping up in the nearest township they could find, like they believe the same thing won't happen here."

"I live in San Francisco," came the reply from Oz as he lead them into the living room. "There's a group of werewolves that set up a sort of commune by Fisherman's Wharf. I make the drive here to see Jordy a few times a year, trying to convince him to join us so we could try to help him remain in control."

"Someone in your family doesn't have control?" Xander nearly laughed, seating himself on the arm of the easy chair. "Sounds like the black sheep. Or the wolf in black sheep's clothing."

"Very droll," Oz commented.

"I was going for ironic, but that works," Xander told him.

"Jordy's a good kid," Oz affirmed, sitting down on the sofa adjacent to Xander's chair. "But ever since his dad died when he was twelve, he's been indulging in some bad influences. Aunt Maureen's pretty laidback about his choices, though she's smart enough to reprimand him because of the way it's affecting his lycanthropy."

"That why he played the role of the silent monk down there?" Spike asked, standing in their view but not comfortable enough with Oz to let his guard down by taking a seat. "Kid was a disturbing sight, his eyes all glazed over and his lips moving without saying anything."

"Yeah," Oz answered. "If he takes it to mind to actually carry the charms with him, he's not in any danger of turning. But being around Robbie and seeing what he had done to him serves as a reminder to stay on the ball."

"Monk in the strictest sense of the word," Xander muttered.

"Self-flagellating tendencies," Spike added. "He'll make a good martyr someday."

"Still looking for soldiers for your army?" Xander asked deprecatingly.

"Still waiting on back-up from your girls?" Spike shot back.

"Well, at least some things haven't changed," Oz remarked. "The two of you are still bickering and by the sounds of it, Xander's still hanging out with Buffy and Willow." He stopped for a moment before asking. "How is she? Them. How are they?"

Xander thought about how to answer before bringing up, "Not bad. Will's... on the mend right now. Used some heavy magic to get rid of a spell on Giles. He was being manipulated into doing some bad things recently, which took its toll on the Buffster."

"Things aren't all good on the home front," Oz stated.

"Worse than the Cyclops is letting on," Spike concluded, looking down at Xander. "Rupert's 'indisposed' after being purged from a spell and Red needs recovery time. So what are you doing over here, leaving the Slayer all by her lonesome?"

"Buffy's got Dawn," Xander protested. "Dawnie's grown up into one hell of a witch. Making with the magicks and the mayhem. The two of them could stand to spend a bit more time together. Besides, Buff's the one that recommended I come out here to scope things out."

As Oz asked after the recent events in Xander's life, Spike took the time to do some thinking. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Xander was avoiding something. When Xander finished catching Oz up to all of the main events that occurred after the latter had left Sunnydale, Spike brought up, "Slayer's gotten to casting out her friends again, yeah? What, it's a seasonal thing?"

Xander looked up at Spike, clearly resentful. "She's had a lot on her hands ever since, I don't know, the age of fifteen. Twelve years of being humanity's greatest hope against the dark forces would be enough to make someone a bit cranky now and again."

"And having her baby sis mess with magic and inadvertently use it against her necessitates some alone time, am I right?" Judging by Xander's silence, Spike had managed to hit the nail on the head once again. Simple things such as human relationships and cause and effect were easy; apocalypses, not so much. "She still feeling overshadowed by big sis, then? Even after all these years? Buffy never _did_ learn how to balance her personal relationships. My guess is, the little niblet was spending time with Rupert and tapped into something that made him carry out some of her darker desires against the Slayer. Am I warm?"

"How do you do that?" Xander asked bitterly.

"Well, it's not all that that hard to read you," Oz told him. "Even with an eye missing, you're an open book." Looking up at Spike, he asked, "So you've got a soul now. Story behind that, too?"

"Story behind everything," Spike confirmed. "Doesn't mean it's gonna get told. Far as you need to know about me is I'm living comfortable and quiet-like, minding my own business until I hear word of another end-of-days brewing under my nose."

"What is it this time?" Oz asked.

"Ghosts," Xander answered. "Or something using them as its minions. From what I was able to figure out, they're partially-corporeal and have some sort of residual telepathic capabilities from whichever dimension they hailed from. Since I don't know whose ghosts they are, there's no way of knowing if they had a connection to one another while alive. They look to be from various demographics, so until I get a psychic and at least two or three witches on the field, there's no way of knowing who's pulling the strings."

"Considered the First?" Spike queried.

"Top of our list," Xander answered.

"What about that evil law firm in LA?" Oz asked. "Maybe they didn't want to keep to their schedule."

"Not their style," Spike replied. "They're not big on hiding behind curtains." To Xander, he remarked, "Far as I could see, you're at a standstill until your back-up arrives in town. My advice would be to have a local do some patrolling, see if they could recognize our Caspers and give you proper names for you to do a search on. Someone who's lived here his whole life. And having supernatural strength and speed would probably be a plus..."

"You're _not_ roping Robbie into this!" Xander exclaimed. "We don't know what his powers are like."

"What's not to know?" Spike asked. "Red's ex-mongrel here saw for himself that Hercules somehow managed to 'transcend.' We'll keep him on a tight leash, write down any leads he gives us, then stick him back in his cage just to make him feel better."

Clearly not liking the idea, Xander turned his eyes to Oz. After looking down for a moment, Oz finally sighed and said, "If knowing the identities of the ghosts would help, then using a lifelong local _would_ probably be your best bet, especially if time's a factor. I don't suggest tonight, though. Aunt Maureen's going to be gone until late, and I don't want to leave Jordy alone when he's still a little shaky. I'd also like to keep an eye on Robbie for a full night, just to make sure nothing weird happens."

"That settles it," Spike declared. "The guru will keep an eye on Hercules, and tomorrow we'll take him out for a walk." To Xander, he added, "We'll need all the muscle we can get to rein him in if he gets rowdy. If we can't get anymore muscle, do _you_ care to join us?"

"Was that supposed to be a joke?" Xander asked sourly.

"Actually, it was supposed to be a genuine offer mixed with a hint of sarcasm," Spike replied. "If we happen to encounter your relation, we don't want her discovering her former beau has joined the ranks of the monsters she so despises. She'd be much more likely to listen to _you_ telling her to go home than to either of us."

"You're trying to minimize human casualties," Oz realized. "Huh, you really _do_ have a soul."


	3. Bloodbeat, pt 2

_I wake at dusk to go alone  
Without a light, to the unknown  
I want this night inside of me  
I want to feel  
I want this speeding  
_-"Bloodbeat" by Patrick Wolf

* * *

The following night, after having coached Robbie all afternoon, Oz waited for Spike and Xander to arrive.

Going to his large duffel bag, he carefully upended it on the dining table and sifted through its various contents. After putting on what looked like a carpenter's holster, he began arming himself with a spare set of Tibetan rosaries, a wooden stake, and special plastic cartridges filled with a silver liquid. As he began loading his crossbow, he asked, "Need something?"

Robbie, who had been standing at the doorway behind him and observing him, slowly stepped into the room. Moving to stand besides Oz, he gazed down at the strange objects that had been strewn across the table and that Oz was currently planting in various pockets and pouches. "How'd you know I was there?"

"I can smell you," Oz replied, putting the extra items back in his bag. "Your senses improve over time. At first it was just my girlfriend, but it eventually developed so that everyone's got their unique scent. Mixture of their dominant emotions and body chemistry."

"Willow?" Robbie inquired. Seeing Oz stop short, Robbie nervously scratched the back of his head. He remembered the brutal words that Spike had said about Oz and Willow's relationship, and the way Oz had nearly transformed out of anger. "That was her name, right? Pretty name."

"You don't know her, do you?" Oz asked, not looking at him.

"No," Robbie answered quickly. "No, I just heard her name thrown around in conversation."

Looking down, Oz released an absent smile as he thought back on his time with Willow. "She was something special. Special enough to make me go to the other side of the world so I could control my beast form. Sometimes, I still wonder how she's doing."

"You love her, then?" Robbie asked.

"I did," Oz confirmed. "It's been a long time. I've moved on."

"No you haven't," Robbie disagreed. "You can't move on from love. Not if it's real."

Finally looking at Robbie, Oz smirked as he said, "You've got a lot to learn about life."

"I'm not that much younger than you," Robbie reminded him.

"No," Oz agreed. "But that doesn't mean that you don't have a whole lot more living to do." After a moment's thought, he asked, "Do you trust him?"

"Who?"

"Spike."

"Oh," Robbie responded. After a moment in which he seemed to think about it, he replied, "He hasn't given me reason not to. Could've killed me when he first met me, but he just slapped my wrist and told me to find people I could depend on. Then he led me to you. So I guess he can't really be evil or anything, huh?"

Considering Robbie's words, Oz answered, "No, I guess not." From a zippered pouch in his duffel bag, he retrieved a small bracelet and tossed it to Robbie. "Here," he told him as he caught it. It was made of silver beads on an elastic cord, and five small crosses dangled from it. "Wear that tonight, just in case. If nothing else, silver should help keep the beast back."

Fingering the bracelet thoughtfully, Robbie finally slipped it on his right wrist, noting that it stretched enough to still fit comfortably even in his wolf form. "Thanks," he told Oz. "Is this a back-up in case the lessons don't take?"

"Don't expect to fight off transformation after just one go," Oz warned. "It took me weeks just to shake it off for even a few minutes. You might be able to keep from turning at the first sign of the moon, but you've still got a long way to go to maintain it." Even though Oz didn't say anything, he secretly believed that Robbie might just be able to pull off a beast-free night. A werewolf who was born into transcendence has the potential to accomplish just about anything.

Even as Robbie nodded, the doorbell rang. "Jordy!" Aunt Maureen called from upstairs. "I think your friends are at the door!" Hearing Jordy make his way down from his room, Oz took his duffel bag and crossbow from the table and carried it out into the living room, Robbie following after him.

"It's okay, Aunt Maureen," Oz called up. "I've got it!" Jordy was already on the stairs by the time Oz opened the door, revealing Xander standing on the porch. "Hey," he greeted. After looking around while allowing for Xander to come in, he asked, "Where's Spike?"

With a shrug, Xander entered and removed his jacket. "Sorry, not the vampire's keeper. I heard he has some of his own problems, so I wouldn't be surprised if he decides to cancel on his own crazy plan." Looking at Oz hopefully, he remarked, "I hope you _agree_ that it's a crazy plan."

"It's not," Robbie spoke up. "I've got control of myself and should be able to help out. I think Oz really helped me today."

"He's got a way of doing that," Jordy informed them. "Since you guys are headed out, I'll be in the basement. Classes are kicking my ass, so I don't totally trust the Zen thing to work on me."

"Lack of faith is the first hand to untie the reins of discipline," Oz told him.

"Nice," Xander commented. "What's the second hand?"

"The right one, I think," Oz replied. "Or the left. Probably wouldn't matter to the ambidextrous."

"I'll go down with you, man," Robbie told Jordy. To the others, he said, "Call me when Spike gets here." As the two of them disappeared into the basement, Xander happened to catch sight of the new bracelet on Robbie's wrist, which he had been plucking at nervously. Looking at Oz as he closed the front door, Xander felt that he instantly knew where Robbie had gotten his new piece of jewelry from.

"So Oz," he began, "I've got a question for you."

"No."

"No what?"

Turning to face him, Oz stated, "No, I don't trust Spike. Not anymore than the X-Men trusted Magneto."

"You _do_ realize Magneto ended up being one of the good guys, right?"

"The irony's not lost on me," Oz admitted. Stepping into the living room, he continued, "Spike's apparently been fighting on the side of good for a long time, but I've been gone longer than that. I remember him being evil, causing Buffy one migraine after the other. And yet, one of my last memories of him involves him helping you guys save me after the Initiative caught me. He had his own motives, but if he can do something good for personal reasons, it's a hell of a step from him not doing _anything_ good."

Xander followed Oz into the living room, sitting besides the smaller man on the sofa. After thinking about it for a moment, Xander responded, "Wow. You're giving out monologues now. You must've changed a lot in the past six or seven years."

"Eight years," Oz corrected. "And yeah, I'm even passing out the sermons at half-price these days." The two of them chuckled quietly for a moment. Looking down at the crossbow he was still holding, Oz slowly set it down on the carpet as he confessed, "I'll never be as strong as Buffy and Willow must have been, if they could see past what he did to us. But I _can_ try to be as strong as you."

Seeing Xander's perplexed glance, Oz gave him a ghost of a smile as he explained, "You saw my beast. You've seen what I can do. And you believed that I could change. If I could subvert my lupine nature because of the way I felt for Willow, then maybe Spike can keep down the killer inside because of how he felt for Buffy."

Trying to take all of this in, Xander asked, "How did you know about Spike and Buffy?"

"I didn't," Oz replied sheepishly. "Robbie told me that there was a girl involved in the whole Spike-has-a-soul thing, and I just really, _really_ hoped it wasn't Willow. Because I could handle her leaving me for a girl, but messing with Spike-"

"I am fighting the strongest urge to vomit I've had in ages," Xander interrupted. "Spike and Buff, disgusting. Spike and Anya, downright wrong. Spike and Will, total brain aneurysm."

"Spike and Anya?" Oz asked, surprised.

"I left her at the altar," Xander told him.

"Ah," Oz breathed. "That'd do it."

Xander was about to remark that that sounded almost as though Oz _condoned_ the idea of Spike and Anya being together, when he heard a sudden scream from the basement. Though Oz jumped to his feet just as quickly as Xander did, Oz told him, "It's okay." Looking at his wristwatch, he explained, "It's 8:20. The moon's out. Robbie held out for four minutes before changing."

"Is that good?" Xander asked.

"Better than _I_ did on my first night in Tibet," Oz answered.

"Robbie gets a gold star," Xander remarked apprehensively.

"Come on," Oz told him, heading for the basement. "Let's help Jordy get him in the cage while the muscle spasms clear." Nodding, Xander followed after him, though both men noticed that the other appeared more worried than he let on. When their arrival to the basement was marked with Jordy crashing at their feet, they both realized that their gut instincts were still as sharp as ever.

"Jordy!" Oz called, crouching besides his younger cousin.

"Lock the back door!" Jordy told him, his eyes on something in the basement. "He's gone feral!"

Even as Oz sprung to his feet and moved, Xander mentioned, "I thought you said he transcended."

"That's what I thought," Oz replied. Stopping short as he looked upon Robbie, he added, "I was wrong."

Robbie's clothes littered the floor, torn in shreds. Robbie himself didn't look much better. The wolf form he had taken on the night before had been smaller and more humanoid. The creature that Xander had moved to gawk at looked like it could swallow Oz down its gullet without bothering to chew. Fortunately, Xander had come prepared for such an incident. Unfortunately, the compact tranquilizer gun he had brought with him was in his jacket pocket... which was on the living room sofa. "Oh, this is gonna _suck_," he murmured.

"Stay back," Oz told Xander lowly. His hand went for one of the small packets he had on his belt as he slowly approached Robbie. "I'm going to try to get past him and lock the door before he can get out. If he bites me, I'll turn and at least be able to force him back in the cage."

"And if he bites me?" Xander asked.

"That's why I'm telling you to stay back."

While Xander didn't like the idea, there wasn't a better one. Since he didn't get the chance to deal with werewolves much, the best option he had was to watch carefully as one werewolf dealt with another. Seeing Oz's slow movements towards the large monster that anxiously sniffed at him as he approached, Xander now knew why so few people understood werewolves. There just weren't many people in the world with Oz's coolheaded approach that could get that close to them; Xander himself was tempted to just grab Jordy and race up the stairs.

"What, did I miss the pre-show?"

Oz flinched at the sound of Spike's voice through the partially-opened cellar door. He had smelled the vampire getting closer, but he had hoped Spike wouldn't be stupid enough to just brashly announce himself. Watching Robbie whirl around as Spike started down the stairs from the other side of the basement, Oz realized that the vampire probably wasn't as bright as he liked to believe. Seeing Robbie lunge for him, Oz called out, "Watch it, he's feral!"

"Is he, now?" Spike asked with a grin. "Good. I was hoping for a bit of excite-" He was cut off by a massive paw coming out of what seemed like nowhere and connecting with his face. While he fully expected it to hurt, it was the _burn_ that he was unprepared for, sending him to the floor.

Oz darted for Robbie when he saw him make his move on Spike, his face grim when he realized that Robbie's wolf form was even faster than he had expected. Before he knew what was happening, the wolf had grabbed Spike off the floor and flung him towards Oz as easily as though he was simply slinging a clod of dirt. Spike collided with Oz, sending them both crashing to the floor while Robbie disappeared through the unguarded door.

As soon as he saw that there was more going on than Spike and Oz could handle, Xander moved into the room and grabbed a nearby baseball bat. It wouldn't do much damage and would almost guarantee that he'd get his ass handed to him, but he needed to try to at least keep Robbie on the property until his more supernaturally-inclined cohorts picked themselves up.

Heading up the set of stairs that led out into the backyard, Xander saw that he was already too late. Robbie had jumped the fence and was on the street. Muttering obscenities under his breath, he gave chase and wished for back-up. Oh how he _wished_ he could simply wish some back-up at his side. As it stood, though, he was really facing down the Big Bad Wolf all on his own. He hoped Buffy would forgive his stupidity if he ended up getting his throat torn out.

As though noticing that he was being pursued, the wolf stopped and spun around to face Xander. Xander slowed to a stop a few yards away, prepared to run again (though in which direction, he wasn't wholly certain). Holding the bat out in front of him like a sword, he said, "Okay, Rob. Calm down. I like you and everything, and I respect you for wanting to back away from Marissa before you used her bones for toothpicks, but if you do anything stupid tonight, I _will_ be forced to beat you down." When the werewolf growled in response, Xander cringed but didn't back down.

"Xander, duck!"

That right there? That sounded like back-up. And back-up was telling him to duck. So duck he did, which was perfect timing if Xander ever saw it. Robbie had leapt at him, and was forced back when Oz shot him with something. "Yes!" Xander hissed out excitedly. "And Eagle Eye Oz scores with a tranq gun!"

Instead of swaying and then falling to the ground, however, the wolf simply looked down at the dart now protruding from his chest before turning and running off. "Hey!" Xander called out. He got up to chase after him again, but Robbie spun around as soon as he closed the distance and swiped at him. Forced into a duck and roll, Xander managed to regain his footing just in time to see Robbie turn a corner and disappear.

Turning to see Oz loading another dart into his gun, he asked, "Okay, what the hell was up with that? Does Mr. New Breed of Werewolf need to get shot up with a new breed of sedatives?"

"He's a lot bigger than I am in my wolf form," Oz stated. "Probably need to up the dosage to take him out. Hopefully, what he's got in him will slow him down enough for us to catch up with him before he does any harm."

"What I want to know is," Spike called, storming out of the cellar and crossing the backyard towards them, "why the hell do I feel like I just stuck my face in a vat of holy water?" Though he wouldn't be able to see it due to his lack of a reflection, Oz and Xander could see the various cross-shaped burns along his cheek.

"Robbie was wearing a bracelet made of crosses," Oz told him. "I thought it'd protect him from you."

"From me?" Spike asked, shocked.

"Seemed like the right thing to do," Oz replied.

"That's all well and good," Spike sarcastically stated. "So where's _my_ trinket to protect me from _him_?"

"You've got your nose," Oz stated impatiently. "If he hurts someone, you can smell the blood. Xander, you packing?"

"I've got a gun in my jacket," Xander replied. "Enough pentobarbital to take down Godzilla, if need be."

"Take these," Oz told him, tossing him several of the plastic packets he had packed on him. "It's a silver fluoride solution. Last-ditch effort for if he gets too close. Burst it against his skin, worse reaction than a cross pressed against a vamp. Toss one in his mouth, it'll poison him so badly he'll be sick for a week. Contact with eyes means instant blindness."

"Do I get those?" Spike asked, hopeful.

"No," Oz told him sharply.

"Aw," Spike disappointedly murmured.

"I'm teaming up with Jordy," Oz said. "You get Xander."

"What?!" Xander exclaimed.

"There's a rotten deal," Spike agreed. "But no use arguing. Need at least one bloodhound per pair, and it's not likely he wants him _or_ his kin being stuck with me." Chucking his head back into the house, Spike told Xander. "Come on. Let's get your little pistol and fire after this mutt before he can do any damage."

"You know," Xander remarked while rushing after Spike, "I've been hanging around too many weird things lately. You're starting to make _way_ too much sense."

As the two of them headed around the front of the house for Xander's stuff, Oz jogged back towards the cellar door. "Jordy," he called, "come on. We need to go after Robbie."

"Can't. Meditating."

Covering his face in his free hand in exasperation, Oz bounded down the steps and told him, "He's _your_ friend, so-" He cut himself off when he saw that Jordy had already locked himself in the cage, halfway through with the transformation and trying to fight it off.

"He gave me a scare, bro," Jordy explained, almost apologetically. "Didn't think he'd change like that all of a sudden. Smacked me clear across the room when he was still in his human form. I don't think it's a good idea for me to face up with him again, not the way I am now."

"You're not wrong," Oz admitted. "I'll tell your mom you'll be down here for the night. We'll bring Robbie in with enough tranquilizers to keep him quiet until sunrise, then we'll figure out what to do from there." Locking the cellar door, he headed to the other side of the basement and went for the stairs leading into the house. "You need anything before I go?"

"Just a promise that you'll come back alive."

* * *

"So, do you do a lot of breaking-and-entering now that you're no longer evil?"

Stepping off the elevator, Spike ignored Xander's question and continued down the corridor to Robbie's apartment, hoisting the heavy chains he had brought along with him. "Because," Xander continued, following after him, "it just seems like that's the kind of behavior that would _stop_ when you cease being evil, not _start_."

"I'm _not_ breaking and entering," Spike told him. "Sometimes those little beasts come back to familiar places. If he's not hiding out at his flat, then it's wholly possible he's aiming to take a bite out of your relation. The sooner you shut up and help me sweep the premises, the faster we can make sure that the pup isn't off getting herself killed by Clifford the Big Red Dog."

"Point taken," Xander remarked. After a moment, he gaped at Spike and asked, "Did you just reference a cartoon that I watched as a kid?"

"I had my downtime back in the day," Spike said defensively. "When your major gimmick is ruining the lives of the innocent, sometimes you find the telly set on some kid-friendly channels. Not my fault that I'd be too full to grab the remote."

"Okay, images of you engorged on the blood of an entire family are _really_ not helping me believe you've turned over a new leaf," Xander told him uncomfortably.

Stopping, Spike turned to face Xander and sternly told him, "You're not to think of me or any part of me as 'engorged' ever again, got that?" He turned back and arrived at Robbie's door just when Xander realized what Spike had meant. With a disgusted shudder, he met up with Spike, still keeping his distance.

"Hrm," Xander observed. "Only one lock, no deadbolt. Do you think you could-" He was cut off when Spike suddenly kicked out, knocking the door off its hinges with a loud bang. "I _was_ going to ask if you could pick the lock."

"Oh," Spike said. "Yeah, I think I could've."

"I thought we said no breaking and entering."

"But the breaking bit's my favorite part."

"Forget it," Xander muttered, pushing his way into the apartment. "Next time, I'm teaming up with Oz. "

"Won't _be_ a next time, Patch," Spike reminded him. "You're still Slayer property, remember? Wolf Boy's got his little commune in Frisco that he's part of, and by the time this week ends, he'll be teaching new werewolves how to scratch behind their ears with their feet and you'll be back in the Slayer's arms."

Surprised, Xander asked, "How did you...?" He trailed off, as though realizing something. "Never mind." Looking back around the dim apartment, he told Spike, "Flick on the light, would you?"

"How did I what?" Spike queried.

"Nothing," Xander replied. "Turn on the light."

Spike remained silent, thinking over what he had just said. He had referred back to Oz's werewolf community in San Francisco, and said that Xander would be back with the Slayer. What part of that would surprise Xander?

Narrowing his eyes, Spike realized what he had said. He hadn't said that Xander would be back with the Slayer... he had said that Xander would be back in the Slayer's _arms_. Without turning on the light, Spike stepped into the apartment and asked Xander, "You and Buffy...?"

With a deep breath and his back to Spike, Xander pretended that he was still searching the apartment for Robbie. "We're not getting any younger," he explained. "Or safer. Every time we try to let someone in, that person usually ends up dead. So we just realized, 'Hey, I'm still alive and _you're_ still alive...' That's all there is to it, really."

Spike tried to come to terms with this revelation. Xander, the Slayer's right-hand man who had always been the equivalent of her big brother... was now _sleeping_ with her? That _was_ what he meant, right? And if he didn't mention the word "love," then it was wholly possible that they were just meeting one another's physical needs. It was the same sort of relationship that Buffy and Spike had all those years ago. Only, judging by the way Spike hadn't even picked up on any romantic feelings on Xander's end, the Slayer wasn't experiencing blind, unconditional love from her current boy toy.

He opened his mouth to make a comment. What he would've said is anybody's guess, as he was cut off when something heavy hit him in the back of the head. From behind him, a woman's voice angrily cried out, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Xander whirled around to see Spike being beaned in the back of the head by a tall, slender woman. Having completely forgotten about neighbors overhearing the ruckus the vampire had caused when he broke open the door, he headed for a nearby lamp and flicked it on, saying, "Hey! Wait, no! You've got the wrong idea!"

When the harsh light of the uncovered table lamp filled the room, Xander squinted at the girl that Spike was about to punch. "Spike, touch her, and I _will_ count that as harming the innocent and take you down."

Spike cast him a reproachful glare before putting his fist down and backing away from her before she could hit him again. "I get myself beat down with a Christopher Marlowe anthology," Spike muttered, seeing the book in her hands. "Fitting."

Xander grasped for the name that was on the tip of his tongue. He knew this girl. He had met her recently. She was one of Marissa's friends. "Violet?"

The redhead turned to look at Xander, apparently surprised at having her name uttered. "Eye Patch Guy?" Looking at Spike, she realized, "British Boy!"

"Three cheers for Captain Obvious," Spike remarked sardonically.

Looking back at the broken door, Violet backed away from the two men. "Okay, look," she said steadily as she looked back at the two of them, as though trying to talk them out of something. "I know Marissa's probably been saying that Robbie's been a real jerk, and I'm _not_ defending him. But if you came in here to beat him up or like, kill him or something, that's stupid and wrong and should I run away now?"

"Yes," Spike told her.

"No," Xander said, speaking over the vampire and shooting him a harsh glance. Stepping closer to Violet, he explained, "We're not here to hurt Robbie. We needed to see if he was here. It's possible he's in trouble, and... you're not listening to a word I'm saying."

Violet's eyes had met Spike's and suddenly widened. Confused, Xander observed the silent interaction between the two of them. When Violet began backing up just a little bit quicker and dropped her book, Spike began approaching her.

The girl turned on her heels and darted for the door, but Spike's preternatural athleticism got him there before her. "Well, well," he remarked condescendingly. "I never thought I'd see one of you lot in the flesh. Or near to it, at least."

"Spike?" Xander asked.

"He's a vampire," Violet breathed.

"Yeah, I know," Xander replied, surprised. "How do _you_ know?"

"It's a clever ruse," Spike stated, still blocking Violet's exit. "But don't let it fool you. It's just an advanced glamour trick making her look all nice and pretty."

"Shut up," Violet told him lowly.

"Making you angry's not part of my game plan," Spike replied. "But now that you're here, the game's changed just a little. I'm betting your friends don't know what you are, do they?"

"You're stupid," she hissed ineffectually, backing away from him.

"I'll never win the Nobel Prize," Spike affirmed. "I never claimed to be a genius. Just an opportunist. And you're going to be a good little pixie and provide us with a new opportunity, aren't you?"

"If you're here to hurt Robbie-"

"Oh, for the love of-" Spike muttered. "We're _not_ going to hurt the bloody fool. We need to find him. And you can help us. You know you can." To Xander, he explained, "She's a Sidhe."

Perplexed, Xander replied, "Yeah, I kinda got the idea that she was a she."

"Not a 'she,' you baboon" Spike snapped. "A Sidhe. Faerie folk. Celtic origin. Started dwindling in numbers centuries ago. Rumor had it that they've been intermarrying with humans because they've been dying out." Glancing once again at Violet, he remarked, "Looks like this one still has the sickly face her ancestors had and hides it with glamour."

"You're one to talk about hiding your true face," Violet shot back. "At least I'm not a killer." Turning to Xander, she explained, "I _have_ to hide what I am. My family's made up of good people, but Robbie and Marissa wouldn't understand that. They'd look at my face and they'd turn away as though I was a monster." Pointing to Spike, she argued, "_This_ thing isn't anything but a violent animal, a-"

"A vampire with a soul," Spike told her evenly. "A vampire with a soul who's trying to keep Robbie's monster form from hurting anybody." Slowly, Violet turned to look at him. "He's a werewolf, Tinkerbell," he said solemnly. "And the only way I can track him effectively is if he spills some blood first. Personally, I'd much rather not wait until then. You can do a locating spell. Question is, can you do it before he causes any damage?"

Violet looked down, appearing to think about it. After a moment, she finally shook her head, not looking up at Spike's eyes. "I'm not strong enough," she confessed. "The only way I can locate someone is if I'm purposely tracking them out on the street."

"Then come with us," Xander told her.

"I can't," she argued, looking up at him. "The more magic I use, the less control I have over the glamour. If it falls apart and someone sees me, my secret's out. I can't let that happen, not after all I've gone through to get where I am."

"Rubbish," Spike scoffed. "What the hell is it with you half-human brats? Your popularity or whatever the hell it is that you're hanging on to isn't going to amount for jack when you breathe your last. I know you Sidhe are a sickly bunch, so who knows how long it'll be before you just don't wake up in the morning? While you're here, might as well make some use of what the Powers That Bloody Well Be gave you and _help_ someone. It's _your_ town; Hercules is probably out killing _your_ friends. And if _you_ won't do anything to stop it, then excuse me and Mr. Eye Patch Guy while we go clean up his mess. Come on, Harris."

As Violet closed her eyes and pondered on the vampire's oddly logical words, Xander stepped past her and moved to follow after Spike. Putting his hands in his pockets, Xander observed the repulsed expression on Spike's face and wondered if that was a reaction to being able to see Violet's true face or if it was because he was genuinely disgusted by the selfishness of the living. If the latter was the case, Xander would have to allow for Spike having turned into an upright sort of person. As such, he preferred to believe in the superficial implications of the former.

"Wait," Violet's voice suddenly called out from behind them. "I'm coming with you."

* * *

With his gun hidden in his denim jacket, Oz set out on his lone search for Robbie.

Feeling the occasional pull of his own inner beast, Oz continually glanced up at the full moon. He was only aware of his wolf because he was listening to it, trying to get it to help him on his search. He had no doubt that Robbie had felt a similar pull, and had simply been unable to control it.

He had heard various tales of different species of werewolves, from those who transformed only on the full moon to those whose transformation turned them into literal wolves instead of the hybrids that he and Jordy became. Thinking back on it, he wondered if Robbie could somehow have been infected with a particular strain of lycanthropy, one that made his change during the actual full moon much more violent than it is for the other two nights. That still raised the question, however, of whether this means that something very strange was going on with Jordy's contamination factor, or if Robbie really _was_ some new breed of werewolf.

Oz stopped and sniffed the air. He finally managed to pick it up: Robbie's scent. It was the smell of sadness and confusion, mixed with high adrenaline and something that words couldn't properly describe. Hearing the footsteps that came from around the corner, Oz realized that it was accompanied by another scent. It smelled faintly of... apples? _A body spray_, Oz realized. _Definitely female. And yet definitely Robbie. _

Knowing it wasn't a wolf, Oz stepped around the corner a little more confidently. He was given something of a scare when the person he had been tracking cried out and raised a weapon against him. He instinctively backed away and pulled out his tranquilizer gun even as he realized what she had been wielding.

A stake. A wooden stake.

They merely stared at one another, both perplexed by the other's reaction. Finally, the young girl carefully lowered the stake. Oz followed suit with his weapon. As though she didn't know what else to say, she explained, "Vampires."

"Oh," Oz responded. After a beat, he stated, "Werewolves."

"No kidding?"

"Nope."

Nodding, the girl looked around the neighborhood. Leaning towards Oz, she whispered, "Think I can sprint home?"

"Fast movement only excites them," Oz told her, speaking from experience.

"Great," she replied sarcastically. "I'll just crawl home, then."

Though he didn't want to waste time, Oz thought about it. If he could smell Robbie on her, then she was probably a friend of his. Possibly even a girlfriend. If that was the case, and werewolves sometimes flock towards scents that their human selves recognize, she could be in danger. "C'mon," he told her. "I'll walk you home."

Surprised, the girl edged back. "No thanks."

"You run into a werewolf on your own, you'll be lucky to end up dead," Oz snapped, truthfully enough.

Chewing on her bottom lip, she replied, "It's just... I've never seen you around town before, and you have a weird-looking gun. I don't particularly feel safe one way or the other."

She was right, of course. In a town the size of Woodridge, everybody knew everybody. Oz was just a stranger, and a suspicious one, at that. "I'm Oz. Visiting my cousin Jordy. Jordan Osbourne. He's a sophomore at Woodridge College."

"Poli-sci major?"

"I don't know," Oz confessed. "He seems too directionless to have picked a major already."

With a lopsided grin, the girl replied, "That sounds like Jordy, all right. Just wanted to see if you'd blindly agree with me. He's in my Russian Literature class. Blond kid, generally disinterested."

"Sounds like my flesh and blood," Oz remarked dryly.

Seeming to trust him enough to walk with him but not enough to put away the stake, she began walking once again and said nothing when he followed along in stride. After a period of awkward silence, she told him, "My name's Marissa. Marissa Harris. And sorry about the vampire thing. You could say they've been on my mind lately. Which is fine, since you've got werewolves on the brain. So I'm no crazier than you are."

"I wouldn't call that a good thing," Oz joked lightly. Harris. He wondered briefly if this was the "relation" of Xander's that Spike had mentioned, but decided against mentioning Spike. She clearly didn't want to hear about vampires right now. "You know a kid named Xander Harris?"

Surprised, Marissa asked, "You know Xander?"

"I used to live in Sunnydale."

"Me too!" Marissa exclaimed, excited. Aware that her excitement seemed strange, she apologized. "Sorry. It's just... wow, Sunnydale. I know Jordy lived there, but he moved away years before that whole mess happened. Were you there when it... well, when it ended?"

"No," Oz replied, keeping an eye out for signs of his werewolf. "I left town about three years before. Heard about it, though. Crazy stuff."

"Gets crazier the more I find out about it," Marissa replied. "I mean, when Xander-... um, sorry. I don't know if I should be talking about this stuff. It's too weird."

"Buffy, Slayers, First Evil?" Oz asked. "I used to date Xander's best friend, so all of us were in the know."

"You dated Willow?"

Oz flinched. He had succeeded in not thinking about the first girl he had fallen in love with for a long, long time. And now, twice in one night, perfect strangers randomly decided to bring up her name. "Yeah," he replied quietly. "Sorry for the reaction. Not one of my favorite break-ups."

"Was it because she found out she was gay?" Marissa inquired. As soon as the words left her mouth, she covered it with her hand, her eyes wide and embarrassed. "Oh my God, that was stupid of me to say! I'm sorry, I just... I remember her from when I was little, and I always thought that she and Xander... And I just found out that she swings that way and... wow, I'm totally sorry."

With a rueful smile, Oz shook his head and spoke even while she was still rambling out an apology. "It's okay. She did what was best for her, and that takes guts. Besides, it was a long time ago."

Even as he finished speaking, Oz tilted his head and sniffed the air. With Marissa beside him, it was difficult to tell... but he thought he smelled Robbie again. Stopping, he held a hand out for the still-babbling Marissa to stop walking. "Do you live down this way?"

Coming to a halt, Marissa looked at him before pointing down the street. "Oh yeah, it's just on the next block. It's the one at the end, with the brown fence and tall hedges."

"Oh," Oz replied. "Okay, that's not good."

"Why not?" Marissa asked, looking towards her house. She froze when she saw that what she had thought was one of her hedges was actually breathing... and moving. "Oh great," she remarked, backing up. "First vampires, now werewolves. Am I just flypaper for freaks this week or what?"

"Run," Oz told her, drawing his gun once again. "Get to a friend's house." Thinking fast, he realized that if Robbie got past him and chased after Marissa, maybe he could at least send them in the direction he needed to go. "Jordy lives in 350 Livingston. Go over there, talk to his mother and tell her to keep you safe."

"His _mom_?" Marissa asked, aghast.

"Don't mock Aunt Maureen until you've seen her," Oz replied. Seeing that their voices had attracted the wolf's attention, he raised his gun and screamed out, "Run!" He squeezed off a shot, but it either missed or didn't even cause the animal to flinch. It bounded straight for him, knocking Oz off his feet.

Marissa had started sprinting backwards towards Livingston, but found that she couldn't just leave Oz behind. Even if he _was_ a professional werewolf hunter, it looked like he was liable to get himself ripped to shreds. Heck, Oz was shorter than _her_, and the beast that he was fighting against looked like even Robbie wouldn't be able to get a decent punch in.

Looking around, Marissa headed for a metal garbage can and grabbed it, tossing the trash out of it. _Werewolves don't like silver, right? And garbage cans are silver... or, at least, a silvery color._ Taking the empty pail, she returned to Oz, who was forced to use his gun to keep the beasts' teeth from sinking into him.

Upon seeing Marissa return, Oz cried out, "Get out of here!" Aware of the other presence, the wolf looked up just in time to be hit with the can. Marissa considered it a victory... until she realized that all she had ended up doing was create a werewolf-shaped dent in the garbage can. Dropping her would-be weapon, she edged away as the wolf rose on its hind legs, glaring down at her.

Taking the opportunity to load another dart in his gun, Oz shot at the wolf yet again at point-blank range. The syringe disappeared under its matted brown fur, but the only effect it seemed to have was to encourage the beast to swipe a massive paw at Oz, sending the gun flying across the street and slamming his arm against the pavement in the process.

When Oz screamed over the injury, Marissa cringed and grabbed her stake again. Wood wouldn't do any good against a werewolf, but it was still a weapon, and she was still going to wield it. Seeing the wolf turn its attention to her, she got ready to swing at it as it lunged.

She was surprised when Oz jumped to his feet and grabbed a handful of the wolf's fur. Pulling the monster back, he again yelled for Marissa to run away. Before she could reply, the beast turned on him, going for his neck. Even as she shrieked at the sight of blood, Marissa threw herself at the creature's back, stabbing it with the stake.

The wolf bucked under her, and Marissa gripped onto its fur in panic. She saw Oz's wide blue just a few inches in front of her and felt her blood run cold when she realized that they were turning an inhuman black color. Wondering if werewolf bites turned their victims into wolves _that_ quickly, she pulled her stake out of the wolf and moved back.

The wolf managed to knock her back several yards just by pivoting around. Landing hard on her shoulder, Marissa mewled out, "I'm gonna die." She hardly even realized that she had spoken out loud, she was so dazed.

"Marissa!"

Barely recognizing the concerned voice as Xander's, Marissa was startled to see someone jump on the werewolf's back, putting it in a choke hold. "Someone get this boy a muzzle," Spike grunted, trying to keep from being flung off the creature's back.

Scrambling to her feet, Marissa looked behind her and saw Xander level his own strange-looking gun at the wolf. "Mare, get back," Xander told her. She would have fallen back if someone hadn't come behind her and held her up. When she looked up to thank the person, she froze when she realized that she was in the arms of a smaller version of the beast that Xander and Spike were now taking care of.

"Easy," it told her. "I've got control of it. It just takes a little bit for me to go back to normal after being bitten." Marissa was shaking even as she realized that the voice matched Oz's. If he "had control of it," did that mean that he was a werewolf even before the attack? How...?

"About bloody time," Spike cried out, jumping down from the larger wolf's back as it sunk to its knees. "Jesus, how many rounds did you have to pump into him before he started swaying?"

"Enough to make me worried that he might not recover," Xander remarked, his tranquilizer gun still at the ready as he cautiously approached them. The creature's breathing was ragged, but he was still conscious. Xander didn't know whether or not to shoot one more round at him, afraid that the human within the wolf would never wake up.

Having pulled herself away from Oz, Marissa gaped up at Xander and cried out, "What are you waiting for? Kill it!"

"Kill it?" Xander asked, shocked.

"He's still a normal human most days out of the month," Spike told her, unloading the chains he had coiled up around his shoulder. "No need to put him down."

"What would _you_ care if he's alive?" Marissa retorted. "All it'll do is go around attacking innocent people and turning people like Oz into one of them."

"I've been a werewolf for ten years," Oz informed her. She turned back to look at him and was surprised to see that he was already mostly back in his human state, albeit a little fuzzier around the face. "He came to me for help; I wasn't careful. You can't condemn someone for someone else's mistakes."

"Are you saying I should condemn _you_?" Marissa asked icily. She gasped when the creature on the ground suddenly twitched, as though trying to make for her. Seeing no movement from any of the men to take it down, she took up her stake again and stated, "If none of you are going to do anything about it, then _I_ will."

When she stepped towards the drugged creature, she was stopped by Spike, who wrapped one cold hand around her wrist to keep her weapon back. "You're not staking anyone tonight, pet."

"Wanna place a bet on that?" Marissa shot back.

From behind her, a familiar feminine voice told her, "Marissa, he's right."

Turning around, she saw a girl with fine red hair staggering towards them. "Violet?" Her former classmate was pale and somehow managed to look even more gaunt than usual. Though her eyes were downcast, Marissa could see that they appeared more deeply-set than they had been when she had seen her on campus the day before."What happened? You look sick."

"I _am_ sick," Violet told her bitterly. Glancing up at Spike and Xander before turning her gaze to Marissa, she said, "I've been sick for a long, long time. But that's not important right now. What's important is that you don't do anything you're going to regret."

"Killing a monster isn't exactly something I'll regret," Marissa responded. "Xander does it all the time."

"_Evil_ monsters," Xander corrected her. "Demons, vampires,-"

"Hey!" Spike exclaimed.

"_Soulless _ones," Xander clarified.

"And this thing has a soul?!" Marissa asked, pointing towards the felled beast. "It was hiding out at my house! It was going to kill me!"

"It was at your house because part of it wanted to see you," Violet brought up. "Marissa... that's not a monster. That's Robbie."

Marissa gaped at Violet in shock. After a few moments, she turned her eyes to Xander, as though he was the only one whose word she'd believe. "It's true," he said quietly. "That's why he's been hanging around Spike. He's been looking for answers."

As though expecting to see Robbie's face, Marissa looked down at the wolf at Spike's feet. It was still heaving deep, raspy breaths, and glared up at the group of them without any sign of recognition. She couldn't see Robbie in those eyes. And while it reminded her of the brief flash of uncharacteristic anger she had seen in Robbie that Sunday in _Neon_, Marissa still refused to accept it.

"I don't believe you," she finally said.

"Believe what you want," Spike replied, getting tired of all of this. The scary wolf was less scary when he was pumped full of barbiturates, and so he turned to look at the now-human Oz. "Help me tie this mongrel up. We'll get him back to the cellar and I'll officially wash my hands of this nonsense for the night while you try to make heads or tails out of this."

"I _don't_ believe you," Marissa said, more clearly. Looking up at the entire group, she said, "That's not Robbie. I know him, and he wouldn't... he can't turn into that, that _thing_."

"All of us can," Oz told her. "All it takes is being in the wrong place at the wrong time. We're not monsters, Marissa. We're just victims who-"

"Shut up!" Marissa barked out. "Just shut up! There's no way you're going to convince me that that animal's my ex-boyfriend. There's just no-"

"Yes there is," Violet said quietly. Her eyes downcast once more, she stated, "We can prove it, but you wouldn't like it. Just... can't you trust us?"

"Vy," Marissa said evenly, "unless you've got video of him shape-shifting, there's no way I can believe what everyone's telling me."

"Not even me?" Xander asked.

"I don't know _what_ to believe from you anymore, after seeing you team up with a vampire," she replied.

With a smirk, Spike told Xander, "Looks like she's catching on to your games, mate."

"Spike," Oz said, "shut up and hand me the chains, okay? Let's get Robbie bound up tight before we get anymore surprises."

"That's _not_ Robbie!" Marissa persisted.

"Oh, Marissa," Violet sighed, defeated. "Please, forgive me?" Just as Marissa was about to ask what she meant, Violet raised her right hand just above her heart and whispered, "_D'aithne a ligean le duine_."

A bright light flashed, causing all of them a moment of blindness as they got used to it. When Oz opened his eyes after the glare, his gaze immediately fell to the creature that he was about to chain up. Instead of the monstrous wolf, he was stunned to see a very feral and very naked Robbie. Looking up, he saw that Spike's vamp-face had also emerged, and the vampire was touching his brow as though surprised that it had been released.

"It's a reveal spell," Violet explained from behind Marissa, who was gawking at Robbie in horror. "For a short time, it shows everyone within a certain radius for what they really are. Vampires, werewolves, demons... everyone. Robbie's still a human, underneath it all."

A spell? So Violet was... a witch. "I don't understand," Marissa uttered. Turning to Violet, she asked, "How did you-?" Her voice caught in her throat when she saw what was standing behind her in lieu of her attractive peer. "Oh my God."

Violet's eyes were sunken so deep that the hollows were actually shadowed over, similar to a skeleton. Instead of their pale blue, her irises contained almost no color at all, making it look as though gray marbles were laid in her sockets in place of eyes. Her normally bouncy red hair was stringy and awkward, and her nose and mouth were so pinched and small that they might not have existed at all.

With a low whistle, Spike remarked, "Now _that's_ a Sidhe."

"I thought we already ascertained she was a she," Oz brought up.

"I'm a faerie," Violet explained to them, though her eyes remained fixed on Marissa and her reaction. "My mother's ancestors were, anyway. The blood's become diluted, so I can't really do a lot of the things that they were able to do. It took a lot out of me just helping Spike and Xander track you down. The only thing I can't seem to get rid of is their sickness." Looking down again, she wistfully stated, "They were beautiful, once. Gods and goddesses, almost. But when the world stopped being simple and pure, they couldn't handle it; too delicate. They became ill and most of them died out, even though they married with the stronger humans to assist the gene pool. There's no word in mortal language to describe exactly _what_ it is I have, but I guess you can liken it to a kind of cancer."

Returning her eyes to Marissa, she went on, "It's not exactly something you advertise. 'Hey, the face you're looking at is just the result of magic; I'm really a walking, talking mummy!' I wish I could've told you. But hearing you talk about Sunnydale, picking up on how you feel about anything that's remotely inhuman... it wasn't likely you'd accept me. So if you want to turn your back on me because of what you see right now, that's fine. What's important is that I came out of hiding when it mattered. I helped save you, Marissa. And if you can't see that... maybe you're just not worthy of seeing of my true face."

For a long time, no one said anything. Finally, Spike and Oz silently went about chaining Robbie. As they did so, the reveal spell wore off. Robbie was once again a wolf, and Spike and Violet both regained their human disguises. The difference between the two of them was that Violet's human face betrayed how difficult it had been to say all that she had said.

Even with the tears streaming down the other girl's face, Marissa found that she couldn't stir up a bit of sympathy. How could she feel such a human emotion for something that wasn't even wholly human? When Xander approached her and tried to put a hand on her shoulder, she simply batted it away. Looking up at her cousin, she said in a hoarse voice, "Look at them. They're all monsters, Xander. Why are they monsters?"

"This coming from the girl that was about to off her ex-boyfriend for being a little hairier than usual," Spike brought up. Though Marissa didn't even look at him, he told her, "Monsters are made, pet. Not born. And considering me and your kin would've found you in bits and pieces if it hadn't been for the pixie, there's no need for me to tell you what I think about the way you're acting. But I'll say it anyway." Stooping down to lift Robbie's still-dazed wolf form to its feet, he concluded, "You're being a first-class bitch."

Watching Spike and Oz amble away with Robbie, neither Xander nor Violet made a move to disagree.

* * *

Robbie had just finished screwing in the last hinge on his door when he picked up a familiar scent.

He had skipped out on school that day, mostly because he was still reeling from the affects of his psychotic transformation the night before. He'd have enough of a headache reattaching the door that Spike had so thoughtlessly kicked down without worrying about his American Religions class. Even though he isolated himself out of shame, he was still pleasantly surprised by who had come to see him.

"Hey," Robbie greeted. Marissa had apparently just come out of class, as she still had her textbooks in her bag and notebooks in hand. While Robbie remained hopeful over the sheer fact that she had managed to make her way to his building, his heart sank when he realized that she wasn't looking him in the eye. As she nervously tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, Robbie struggled to make conversation. "Fixing the door. Apparently, some visitors dropped by last night and knocked a little too hard." After a moment, he realized, "I shouldn't have brought up last night at all, should I?"

"Robbie-"

"Do you want to come in?" Robbie interrupted. "I mean, will there be stuff said that shouldn't be heard by the general public?" Noticing Marissa's glance at Violet's apartment across the hall, he added, "I haven't seen her all day. I don't think she's ready to face the world, after you-" When Marissa shot him a glance, he quickly amended that with, "Not that I _blame_ you! I mean, after everything... there was a reason why she stayed quiet. And why I stayed quiet. We just... we didn't want to do anything that-"

"Rob, stop making excuses," Marissa told him dully. She looked away again, making Robbie shift uncomfortably. "I liked it better when you just told me I was being irrational. Now that I know I'm not, though..."

"Marissa," Robbie spoke quietly. "If I could stop being what I am, I would. And as it is, I'm _trying_. Oz has been helping me, and he says that by next month I should be a little more in control. Last night was the first night I got out, and the fact that I went for you-"

"Means that you still care for me," she finished. While she still didn't meet his eyes, it was clear that the conversation was affecting her. Whether it was positively or negatively, he didn't know. "I thought... I thought for a while that it was me. Me being crazy. What we had was good, so I didn't get why you were pushing me away except for the fact that I'm a paranoid psycho from Sunnydale. But after last night... after Xander explained to me that werewolves gravitate towards the things their human selves care about... I realized that that wasn't it." Finally looking up at him, she breathed, "You pushed me away because you're in love with me."

Surprised by the statement, Robbie nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am."

After a moment, she told him, "Stop it."

"What?"

"Stop loving me," she repeated, her voice cracking. She was obviously trying to keep her voice low and steady, not wanting to alert the neighbors to their conversation. "If there's something inside of you that's going to kill whatever you love, then I'd like to not be killed next month, or any other month. And in case you couldn't tell by now, Spike spelled it out pretty clearly: I'm a bitch."

"No," Robbie objected vehemently. "No, you're not."

"I am," Marissa stated blankly. "I'm not going to make excuses for myself anymore. What happened to me in Sunnydale screwed me up. It screwed me up bad. And I probably should've gone to therapy for it, but I just never did. And now that the world's changing, my paranoia's not just paranoia; it's xenophobia. I'm like... racist against anything that's not completely human. And I actually don't have a problem with that. Hating you for being a werewolf and hating Spike for being a vampire and hating Violet for being a faerie... I'm really okay with it. So if that doesn't put me down as a bitch, I don't know what does."

"You're just scared," Robbie argued.

"That's kinda the point, isn't it?" Marissa asked. "If I'm scared of you, how can I be in a relationship with you? If I'm scared of Violet, how can she be my friend? It's not just hate; it's logic." Judging by the tears brimming in her eyes, Robbie gathered that there was more than logic at work. When he took a step towards her to comfort her, she quickly stepped away. Even if her emotions _were_ playing a part in this, her survival instincts were clearly overriding them.

Hugging herself, Marissa looked down for a few moments and waited until she could choke back the tears. "Maybe it'll change someday. I'm not a spiteful person; I don't enjoy hating. Maybe with whatever Spike's investigating with the ghosts, I'll be forced to come around. Hell, maybe I'll get turned into a werewolf or a vampire, too. Or maybe I'll just... change. I don't know. I don't know anything for sure, but I know that, right now, I never want to see you again."

Robbie opened his mouth, but no words came out. He didn't know what to say. On some level, he had known that it would come to this; that at the very least, Marissa would cut off her ties with him if she ever discovered his lycanthropy. Knowing was very different from actually experiencing it.

The silence was stifling. Finally, turning away from him, she whispered, "Maybe I'll change." Robbie watched her as she moved towards the elevator. For some reason, he began to think about Oz. Oz and Willow. About how Oz had loved her, but had moved on. While he didn't think he'd be able to do that any time soon, Robbie realized that Oz had been right. What else can a person do but move on?

"Marissa," he called, hardly realizing it. She had stepped into the elevator and flinched at the sound of his voice. Still, judging by the fact that the door hadn't closed yet, she was keeping it open and allowing him to have his say. He appreciated that. "I just want to say thank you. For coming here yourself and telling me all that to my face. It must've been hard... and even though you might never want me around again, I want you to know that the respect I have for you is going to make it so I'll never completely turn my back on you. If you ever need me-even if you still hate me-I'm here."

At first, she didn't move. After a few moments, she finally let go of the button that was holding the door open. As Robbie watched the door close shut on her face, he thought he might've seen a small smile on it. While he wouldn't pin any hopes on a facial expression, he knew that Marissa had been right about one thing: she wasn't a spiteful person.

Exhaling a deep breath at everything that had managed to happen recently, Robbie turned and was about to head into his apartment. Thinking better of it, he peered over his shoulder at the door across the hall. Giving it a moment's thought, he went over towards it and slowly put a hand on the wood. "I thought you should know that I could smell you listening in," he said. With an absent chuckle, he admitted, "God, it feels weird to say that."

Slowly, he heard the chain being slid off and saw Violet's hesitant face as she opened the door. It was a strange sight, considering that he was used to her being bubbly and vocal. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I didn't... it's just... I didn't mean to be nosey."

"I don't think nosey people typically do," he joked.

She gave him a very gentle smile, then looked down contemplatively. Meeting his eyes once again, she leaned against the door and asked, "Do you think she'll ever come around?"

Robbie thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. "Weirder things have happened, I guess. The real question would be whether or not she comes around before the world manages to end."

Nodding, she replied, "Xander _did _seem to give off vibes of terrible doom being on the horizon. Maybe we gaggle of monsters could be of some help in keeping the more dangerous monsters from taking over the place."

"We're not monsters," Robbie told her. "We're just people. Some of us carry a scar from a knife fight, others turn into a wolf once a month. Some of us are born with a congenital disease, others are faeries." At Violet's small laugh, he allowed himself to smirk. "Spike was right. Monsters aren't born; it's what you do with yourself that decides whether or not you're a monster. I think a vampire weighed down by a human soul should know that."

"Funny how the brash one is the one that tends to make the most sense," she mused. She was going to say more when the sound of a telephone ringing came from within her apartment. "Oh!" Glancing back inside, she looked at Robbie apologetically. "I'm expecting a call. Feel free to drop by any time."

"Thanks," Robbie replied. "I will." Before she shut the door, he remarked, "Hey, Violet?" When she glanced up at him, Robbie looked her in the eyes and said, "That thing I said to Marissa, about respecting her because she told me all of that to my face?" At Violet's nod, he added, "I feel the same way about you. Saying what you said to Marissa, knowing the way she feels... that takes guts. With all the respect I'm dishing out, I'm hoping I can eventually do something to earn some of my own, too."

Before disappearing into the apartment, Violet grinned at him and replied, "You already have."

* * *

"Bloody hell, all these years and you Scoobies still haven't learnt the fine art of knocking?"

Xander ignored Spike's irritated comment as he looked around the vampire's crypt. "Nice. Homey. You still haven't channeled your inner Martha Stewart, but it's a step up from your last graveyard pit stop." Looking at the seated vampire who was marking his place in a book, he asked, "I guess Wolfram and Hart got you used to the cozy life, huh?"

"Can't say I wasn't expecting this to come sooner or later," Spike muttered, tossing his paperback edition of _A Clockwork Orange_ onto the beaten-up sofa. Glaring up at Xander, he said, "All right, so you wanna go give me the lecture that you can't give Angel about working with the lawyers from hell?"

"Angel was a big boy," Xander remarked. "The biggest of all of us. So while we were okay with him making his own decisions in LA, the whole Wolfram and Hart thing kinda blindsided us." After a pause, he walked towards the sofa and said, "But that's not why I'm here." Sitting besides the confused vampire, he quietly stated, "I want to know how Angel died."

Spike gaped at Xander, not having expected that at all. "What, want to make sure there's no way any of your former competition's coming back? Believe me, he's gone. I saw him go."

"Yeah, you made that clear," Xander told him. "There isn't much of anything else that you _did_ make clear. Angel's dust, and you hinted he died to save you. Call me crazy, but the last I heard of the Misadventures of Spike and Angel, the two of you weren't on good enough terms to warrant any kind of self-sacrificing behavior."

"Yeah, well, the last you heard, I was dead," Spike said, not wanting to get into it. "Can't trust everything you hear."

"Level with me, Bleach Bottle," Xander told him. "What changed?"

Thinking back on his time with Wolfram and Hart, Spike's face grew more solemn. "Everything," he answered at last. "Ever knew what it was like to be part of a prophecy?"

"I'm the normal one of the group, remember?" Xander reminded him.

"Normal being relative," Spike cracked. Serious once again, he asked, "Heard of the Shanshu prophecy?"

"Enlighten me."

"It wasn't supposed to be a big deal," Spike said. "One day a vamp with a soul will fulfill his destiny and die. Only, he'll die a mortal death. His big reward from the Powers That Be would be the return of his heartbeat, the aging process, and all of that garbage. Get rid of the immortal coil, as it were. And that was all well and good, since there was only supposed to be one ensouled vamp walking about."

"And then you complicated things," Xander stated.

"Maybe," Spike replied. "Or maybe it was Angel who messed things up. Angelus, really. Pissed off the wrong gypsies, got himself a curse. As far as anyone knew, there was only supposed to be _one_ vamp who'd get his soul back out of his own free will."

"What, you think you trump Angel because of the way you got your soul?"

"Which one of us is dust?" Spike asked. Xander kept quiet. "More I think on it, the more it makes sense. My feelings for Buffy were so bizarre that the both of us nearly had the urge to vomit when we first started out. Who ever heard of an evil vampire falling in love with a human girl?"

"Ever read _Twilight_?"

"I will _end_ you if you bring up that rot again," Spike answered. "It almost makes Dracula look like a badass." Shifting in his seat, Spike continued, "At any rate, I've begun to think it was _arranged_ for me to fall in love with the Slayer. Seemed like the kind of painful, roundabout way for the Powers to dupe me into wanting to get my soul back."

"So you were _fated_ to fall for her?"

"Fated to fall, ironic enough," Spike replied cryptically. "To fall in love, to have her, to lose her, to try to hurt her, to feel guilty over her, and finally to go and give her what I thought she wanted. Like pieces of a puzzle all clicking together. So yeah, I think I needed to be in love with Buffy to help fulfill my destiny. Sounds all airy and quixotic, but there you go.

"Thing is," he went on, "the Powers knew that Wolfram and Hart would eventually get their hands on this vamp with a soul and try to turn him over to the dark side. So maybe to throw them off the scent, they picked on Angelus. And hell, did it work like a charm! Almost from the day he set foot in LA, Angel was getting under Wolfram and Hart's skin, making his presence known. And ultimately, they ran him to the ground and snagged him up, and his little ragtag team, too. Then it turns out that the big bad law firm got their hands on a certain amulet: the amulet my essence was trapped in."

Spike paused then. There was no reason to detail everything that had happened while he had been working with Angel. Xander had only asked for the end of his story, and so that was what he'd give him: the very end. "Long story short, rocks fell and everyone died. And Angel, the poor bugger, he had remorse crammed so far up his rear end it was starting to make him walk funny. But he kept soldiering on like a good little puppet, believing that someday, somehow, this prophecy that was written in stone was going to come true and everything would be worth it. He'd be mortal, and he probably figured he could spend the rest of his declining years going on a search for a certain blonde with the intent of promising her a normal life and lots of tots with Irish names.

"And after all of that pain and pressure and second-guessing," Spike continued, "Wolfram and Hart finally pulled their last gig. After Angel already purposely sent one of his allies to his own death, they planted some nasty evidence against me, claiming that I had gotten my soul back specifically to take away his beloved birthright, and that that was proof that I was still evil. Even had one of their double agents making it look like I was involved in someone's messy death and was plotting with the Senior Partners all along. And Angel, did he ever put on a show! Caused a ruckus and beat the crap out of me, taking me from the firm to the very edges of town. And when I thought it was finally over, when I thought he'd finally do me in and essentially hand his precious soul over to Wolfram and Hart... the bastard surprised me."

Spike lowered his eyes, and Xander didn't need anything else. "It was all an act," Xander realized, "wasn't it? He saw through their scheme and he just needed to get you out of town because he knew they'd go after you. So that means that he was actually protecting you. Huh, will wonders never cease?"

"It means more than that," Spike told him, still not looking at him. "It means that, in the end, he believed in me. We had our differences when it came to our viewpoints, and we had our similarities in regards to our taste in women. And for all of our rivalry, he believed my word over Harmony's." Realizing what he just said, he added, "Which I would've thought would be a given, actually."

"Harmony as a double agent?" Xander asked. "Oh yeah, clever façade, Wolfram and Hart."

Spike smirked absently. "I'll never forget that look on his face," he murmured, not even aware that he was speaking out loud. "By all rights, he should've killed me. I was just riding on his trench coattails and didn't give him much reason to look past the lies they were feeding him. And yet, while the world went to hell all around us, he kicked me out of the inferno. 'You're going to die, Spike. But not tonight.' And when I got what he was saying, I got to my feet and I said, 'Yeah, I know that, Peaches. And if your new masters find out that their stupid puppy isn't as stupid as they'd like to think, then dying's gonna be the least of _your_ worries. Can't be a hero when you're getting the ever-loving heck tortured out of you, and you can't be a hero if you can't even figure out what side you're rooting for.'"

The vampire swallowed, suddenly finding his throat very, very dry. "Don't know if it was the torture bit," he hoarsely told Xander. "Or if it was the bit about not knowing what side he was on, or about him not being able to be a hero. If I had to guess, I'm gonna go with me calling them his masters. He never said it, but I could tell that he was always afraid that one night he'd wake up and find that he really _had_ become one of them. And maybe by the end, he realized that he already had."

Contorting his lips into what should have been a sneer but didn't quite have the fervor for it, Spike said, "Whatever it was, he punched me in the mouth for it. When I fell, I saw he had a stake in his hand, figured I put my foot too far in my mouth this time. He looked at me and said, 'I _know_ what side I'm on. And that's why this needs to end. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep staying on this side.' Then he looked me right in the eye and told me to run, get as far away as fast as I could, because LA was coming down quick."

He fell silent for a long time before quoting Angel's final words. "'I can't stand up anymore, William. And when one hero falls, another one has to step up to the plate.'" After another moment of silence, he elaborated with a stabbing motion towards his heart and whispered, "Poof."

It was a long time before Spike looked to Xander, wondering what his reaction would be. He saw that the man's single eye was downcast, and he appeared to be deep in thought. As far as Spike knew, Xander was no friend of any vampire's, though he always _was_ more tolerant of Angel than he had been of Spike. "Gonna get all sentimental on me now, Patch?"

Looking up at Spike, Xander blinked and inhaled deeply. Yeah, he was definitely a little on the sentimental side. "No," he lied. "No, I just... wow." He looked down again, trying to take in everything Spike had told him. Finally meeting his eyes again, Xander marveled, "He _trusted_ you."

"Yeah," Spike affirmed. "Apparently so."

"To become a hero."

"Yeah."

"To carry on where he couldn't."

"Yeah."

"To fulfill a prophecy that he thought was meant for _him_."

"We're making a bullet point list then, are we?"

Spike's sarcastic reply did little to waive Xander's shock. "Angel, the first vampire with a soul," the man breathed, "willingly stepped down because he knew he was about to break, and left his recently-ensouled former nemesis to carry on where he couldn't. Spike, he left you behind to save the world."

The two of them looked at one another, one aghast while the other remained composed. At last, Spike calmly said, "Yeah, I know. Left me his legacy. Nice little burden to inherit from your sire." Picking up his book once more, he added, "You got what you came for. Mind going now? I'm up to my favorite part and it loses something when there are too many interruptions."

Xander watched as Spike settled back into his corner of the sofa and continued with his reading. Not having any other business there, he decided that all he could do was dwell on everything that had happened in Woodridge and hoped he and the Slayers would be able to do something about it as the events unfolded. Rising to his feet, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a card.

It was a while before Spike realized that Xander was handing him something. Peering up over the top of the book, Spike glanced at the card for a moment before taking it. Raising an eyebrow at the nonsensical stream of numbers written on it, he asked, "What the hell is this? The social security number of everyone in California?"

"It's the number to my private emergency line," Xander replied. "Tap that into any phone, hit pound twice, and it'll connect you with me instantly. The only other people who have that number are Buffy, Willow, and Giles. I figured if anyone in Woodridge needed to have a way to contact me in the case of an emergency, it'd be the guy who's set to prevent apocalypse number twenty-three."

"Is it really number twenty-three?"

"The twenty-third one we've recorded, anyway."

Spike said nothing for a moment, then asked the first thing that had sprung to his mind when he heard he was one of the trusted few to hold the number. "What about the pup, then? Is this your way of keeping her entirely out of harm's way, or is it less noble than all that?"

Xander shrugged his shoulders, not entirely comfortable with the shift in topic. "You saw her last night. Marissa's not cut out for this. Anyone who can't accept that inhuman doesn't necessarily mean evil is better off sticking with a normal life."

"Says the diehard vampire hater," Spike mused.

"Vamps killed one of my best friends in high school," Xander shot back. "Marissa has no excuse."

"Except for the-" Spike started, but cut himself off. He had forgotten that Xander didn't know about Marissa's mother miscarrying after a vampire attack.

"Except for the what?" Xander asked.

"The example you set for her," Spike quickly threw in. "Pup respects you, Harris. Up until the point where I seriously question her taste in role models. Whatever you happen to say about vamps or other demons, she's going to take to heart."

"She didn't learn that from me," Xander argued. "She hardly saw me when she was growing up."

"Oh, and _that_ always helps, right?"

"It sounds like you're trying to blame Marissa's faults on someone you don't mind beating up on."

"That's the good thing about us demons," Spike told him. "We don't blame. We just see. Too bad we can't say the same for you, since you went and got your eye squeezed like a grape." Raising his book again, he asked, "Now can a man expand his mind, or are you going to start another spat?"

"I'm leaving tonight," Xander told him. "Headed back to HQ."

"Good riddance," Spike replied.

"And Oz is acting as my liaison."

"Your what?" Spike inquired. Holding up the card in his hand, he remarked, "I thought that was _my_ job!"

"Oz is moving up here," Xander explained. "He feels like he should've been a part of everything with Glory and the First and all of that. He's primarily keeping an eye on Jordy and Robbie, but he's also willing to touch base with me every so often and give me regular reports on what's going on with these ghosts. So if you uncover anything, take it up with Oz and we'll do our best over at Slayer Central to give you guys the information and back-up you need. If things get out of hand-you discover who's pulling the strings, lots of people start dying, Oz get seriously injured-use that number. It's _only_ for emergencies."

"No crank calls, then?" Spike joked.

"Only under penalty of 'you die,'" Xander responded. Seeing Spike's confused glance, he sighed and explained, "It's a Homestar Runner reference. Nobody ever gets it. Skip it." Pointing to the card, he stressed, "That's only a last-ditch effort."

"Just like the American Cavalry," Spike commented, looking down at the card. Shrugging, he placed it in the back of his book and remarked, "It'll make a decent bookmark until it's time to ring in the apocalypse. Anything else before you go leaving on a jet plane?"

"Which part?"

"What?"

Xander motioned towards the copy of _A Clockwork Orange_ in Spike's hands. In a quiet voice, he explained, "You said you were up to your favorite part. Which part is that?"

Spike looked down at the ragged cover of his book. He had found it by the trash outside of a church in Detroit three years before. It had probably been with a few other novels that had been donated, but the nuns or whoever it was that were in charge of sifting through donations decided that it belonged in the dumpster instead of the house of God. "Alex's rehabilitation," he finally answered. "When they force him to look at the violence he's done in the hopes that it'll make him not want to do it again."

Considering this, Xander asked, "It worked, didn't it?"

"He got his ass kicked by his old enemies several times as soon as he was released from the center," Spike scoffed. In a more contemplative tone, he added, "But yeah, it works out all right in the end. After he learns a balance."

Nodding, Xander replied, "I'm glad for that. Doesn't make him any less of an ass for everything he did, but life's about learning a good lesson or two." After a moment, he crossed his arms over his chest and asked, "Are you cool if we can the overt symbolism? It's starting to get cheesy."

"_You_ started it," Spike told him. With a smirk, Xander looked down, then turned away. When he got to the door, Spike called out, "Xander." The man stopped and turned back to look at him. After a moment's hesitation, Spike proclaimed, "Buffy knows nothing, you hear me? Nothing about me, about Angel, about bloody Shanshu. And you'll give me fair warning should she ever decide to show up in town. Got that?"

Xander stared at him blankly for a long time. At length, he lowly said, "No problem. I never liked talking about you anyway. She mentions you enough as it is." Seeing Spike's surprised expression, Xander looked down once more before stating, "Which leaves me to wonder, Spike. Whose heart are you more concerned with breaking: hers... or yours?" After receiving no response from Spike, Xander smiled grimly. "We'll be in touch."

Alone in his tomb, Spike no longer felt like reading.


	4. A Man

_I am a man who has grown from a son  
Been crucified by enraged women  
I am a son who was raised by such men  
I'm often reminded of the fools I'm among  
And I have been blamed  
And I have repented  
I'm working my way toward our union mended_

-"A Man" by Alanis Morissette

* * *

"This is starting to get boring."

Spike was _not_ at all happy with his lot in Woodridge right about now. His major problems consisted of ghosts (which were incorporeal), an unknown ex-girlfriend with a vengeance demon to use against him (which could strike from anywhere), and a bunch of whiney half-assed vampires and demons (which were an insult to his talents). Of those three, there was only one that provided for any spot of decent physical violence.

After staking the current vamp that he had pinned down, he looked up to see that there was just one left. A girl. He was no sexist, but he couldn't help but offer a handicap at this point. "All right, come on," he told the brunette who was backing away. "Which will it be? A ten-second head start or me going blindfolded?"

Instead of responding to him, she merely hissed and turned on her heels to run away. With an irritated sigh, Spike hurled his stake at her. Approaching her as she stumbled and turned to dust, he said, "If you wanted the head start, you should've asked."

Picking up his stake, Spike kept a sharp eye out. The downside to fighting vampires is that they didn't leave any bodies behind for a head count, meaning that there was a good chance of one of them escaping under the radar. While Spike enjoyed a surprise, most of the vampires who copped out of a fight were sniveling little wimps. He mostly just killed them to put them out of their misery.

Hearing a sound behind him, he whirled around and put down the stake, hoping for some more hand-to-hand combat rather than a quick dusting. With a roll of his eyes and a sound of disgust, Spike muttered, "Oh, I almost don't mind ramming this through _your_ torso. What the hell are you doing here?"

Robbie Wilson had sprinted out from behind a thick grouping of trees. With a grin, he responded, "Figured I'd go for a jog around the park and I happened to smell trouble. Took care of a couple of vamps for you."

"_You_?" Spike asked, shocked.

"Yeah," Robbie replied, clearly pleased with himself. Putting his hands in his pockets, he reveled, "I wasn't sure what parts from the movies are true, but when one of them turned to dust when he fell on a tree bough, I figured the wooden stakes were a good bet. I hope they weren't, like, cousins of yours or something."

"Think I used to play poker with one of them," Spike remarked. "Might've owed him some money, so you did me a favor in the long run. Still, you can keep your distance, Hercules. I don't want a reputation for tag-teaming with a werewolf."

"Why not?" Robbie asked. "I mean, you said there's no bad blood between us outside of Hollywood, right? So since I'm a wolf who can control most of my transformations and you're a kickass vampire with a soul, there's no reason why we shouldn't join forces and-"

"You're not a ponce, are you?" Spike interrupted. "I've had enough of male groupies with that Andrew twerp."

"Ponce? Is that gay or something?"

With a sigh, Spike answered, "Yeah."

"Um, hello? Have you _seen_ my ex-girlfriend?"

"Now that you mention it...."

His pride gone, Robbie seemed to deflate a little when he commented, "Well, that's a great segue." As Spike started to walk, Robbie followed along besides him. "Marissa's gone AWOL, hasn't she? Ever since the day she told me she never wanted to see me again?"

"Either that," Spike remarked, "or she's a woman of her word and simply resolves to never see you again." With a sideways look at the tall man at his side, he added, "Hasn't come around my crypt in a few nights. Figured that when she realized there was more going on in Woodridge than vamps and ghosts-and that it was affecting people that she liked to call 'normal'-she's gone into hiding."

"This is all my fault," Robbie bemoaned. "If I had just gotten in the cage before the moon was out, I would've never attacked her and Oz, and she would've never known about me being a wolf _or_ about Violet being a faerie-"

"And then the lot of you could still be concealed behind your masks," Spike reminded him. "Nice plan, Robert. Girls just _love_ a man who hides from who he really is and who lies to them." Seeing that Robbie was deeply concerned about this, Spike made an annoyed sound as he added, "Look, so she never wants to see you again. So what? Lots of girls said they never wanted to see me again. I never listened, and they never regretted that."

"What, you're suggesting I just show up at her house?"

"Or you could sit on her porch and wait for her to pass by."

"She'll think I'm a stalker!"

"A lurker," Spike corrected. "Stalking implies hunting. Provided you're not aiming to tackle her in her front yard for a bestial roll around the hay, you're not stalking. And if that _is_ your aim, would you mind if I watch?"

Disgusted, Robbie asked, "What, you get off on watching other people go at it?"

"Well, dirty movies aside," Spike replied, "not particularly. But I _would_ rather enjoy watching her kick your ass if you attempted to throw yourself at her. She's got a nice jab working for her, and if it weren't for the fact that my reproductive bits don't reproduce, I'd be afraid that she'd hit me hard enough to make me sterile." With a nostalgic grin, he sighed, "Those were some good times."

"You're talking about fighting with my ex-girlfriend as though the two of you were flirting," Robbie realized. "I mean, please tell me there's no kind of sexual tension between the two of you, right? Although, I really don't want to think about the possibility that you just get turned on by violence."

"Hello," Spike told him. "Vampire."

"Hi," Robbie responded. "Werewolf. And I _still_ think it's nasty."

"You'll come around," Spike attested. "Give it enough time, and the darkness doesn't look so dark."

"Is that what happened to you?" Robbie asked. "I mean, you were human once, right? Just a regular guy living in England, doing whatever it is you normal English guys do." With a considering glance to Spike, he queried, "Do you remember the first person you killed? What that was like?"

Stopping in his tracks, Spike said nothing for a moment. Finally turning to Robbie, he kept his voice low but stern as he said, "Let's make this clear. There are two things I don't like talking about, particularly not with people who irritate me. One of those things-as you already know-is my sire, the other one is my mum." Continuing on his way, he added, "Keep that in mind."

Robbie stared after him, thoroughly confused. "Hey," he said jogging behind Spike. "What does that have to do with the first person you ki-" Startled by the revelation, he froze in his tracks. His mother. Spike had killed his own.... "Oh," Robbie breathed lowly.

Sensing that Robbie wasn't following after him, Spike put his stake away. Without looking back at the younger man, he told him, "We can make a deal. You stay out of my way until I have business with you and your pack, and I'll pay the pup a visit and see how she's doing. Since you're not man enough for the job, I doubt she'll have anything favorable to say about you anyway."

Robbie was only half-listening, as he was thinking about Spike's relationship with both his mother and his sire. He had hinted that the sire had been a woman, so had they been romantically involved? Had Spike killed her, just as he had his mother? And was it natural for a vampire to kill his own family, or was that a sign that Spike was far more evil than Robbie had thought?

"Yeah," he replied, not sure what he was agreeing to. "Okay."

* * *

Marissa hated her work-study.

Because of classes, she couldn't work during the day. And because she didn't rely on her mother to make tuition payments for her, she couldn't _not_ work at all. Spending her evenings filing records in the bursar's office was absolutely mind-numbing, but it wasn't the work that bothered her. It was the long walk home after sunset. It hadn't been much of an inconvenience two weeks before... but that's because she had been blissfully unaware of the increase in demonic activity in Woodridge.

With a stake in one hand to fend off vampires and her mace in the other to fend off the other things that went bump in the night, Marissa found that she was still jumpier than usual since the night she had discovered her old boyfriend was a werewolf. Even with the realization that he had broken up with her strictly to protect her, Marissa still made it a point to change her class route every day to avoid bumping into him or any of the other non-humans she had discovered. So far, her efforts at evading them had been successful.

Halfway up her driveway, she stopped. So much for avoiding the non-humans. "Well, gee," she remarked, crossing her arms over her chest and turning to get a better look at the familiar silhouette leaning against the tree in her yard. "Oddly enough, my Spike-senses are tingling."

"Satisfying tingle, I'd wager," Spike replied with a smirk, pushing himself away from the tree and into full view under her porch light. "Glad to see you haven't forgotten about your friendly neighborhood vampire. No calls, no letters; I was beginning to think you didn't care."

"You? Beginning to think? What a novel idea." Uncrossing her arms and dropping her sarcastic tone, she continued towards her front door. "Please take your thinking cap and use it somewhere else." When Spike moved to block her path, Marissa stopped, aggravated. "Okay, what part of me telling you to leave didn't make it through your skull?"

"A certain mongrel's been pining over you," Spike told her. "He hasn't seen hair nor hide of you in almost a week. And since I don't mind getting a peek at your hide every now and again, I told him I'd come by and make sure you're still in one piece."

"My 'hide' isn't meant for public exhibition," Marissa shot back. "If you're just here to make sure I've still got a pulse, then the answer is yes. And if you try to get any closer to get a better look at that pulse, you _did_ manage to teach me enough in the way of fighting to take you down."

"Ease off, pet," Spike started.

"No," Marissa told him, withdrawing her stake once again. "_You_ ease off."

"We've been through this," Spike said, backing up towards her door as she approached. "If it came down to a matter of survival, I'll break your arms before I let you kill me. I may be a good guy, but I'm not _that_ good."

"Well, lucky for both of us that I don't want to kill you," Marissa responded, climbing her porch steps as she still tried to get past him. "I just want to get into my house. And if I need to stab you in the throat to do it, hey, added bonus!"

"The throat?" Spike asked as he moved enough to allow Marissa to cautiously unlock her door. "That's rich. You've gone above wanting to kill vampires to just sticking holes in them and watching them bleed? Real sadistic streak you've got. Learned that from your kin?"

Opening her door, Marissa glared at him and explained, "Xander's the one you have to thank for me not trying to dust you right now. Before he left, he pretty much told me that you've got a purpose here in town, and he asked me nicely not to kill you on sight, unless you start going evil. Does annoying count as evil? Because at this point, I'll take any excuse I can get."

"Captain Patch is pulling his weight to make sure I don't kick it?" Spike mused. "Well, that's a lovely turn of events. Our little man-to-man the other night must've set me in a better light." Seeing Marissa's bemused glance, he hastily corrected, "Man-to-man _talk_, you mindless bit. Never thought I'd see the day where I'd say this to a woman, but get your mind out of the gutter, all right?"

"Speaking of the gutter," she told him, "I hear it's lovely there this time of night. You want to go and set up a timeshare or something while I go inside and forget I ever met you?" She moved to step inside her house, but stopped when Spike grabbed her arm. Wanting to flinch, Marissa instead used her fear and surprise in casting a heated glare towards him.

"When exactly did I make myself out to be the enemy, pet?" Spike inquired. "When I chased off the evil ghost of one of your former friends before he drove you mad? When I agreed to your ridiculous request for training despite the fact that I have better ways to spend my nights? Or perhaps it was when I pulled dear old Hercules away before he had a chance to use your liver as a chew toy?" When Marissa angrily pulled herself out of his grasp, Spike held out his arms and cried, "Mind the pun, but throw a dog a bone, yeah? Near as I can figure it, you don't much mind me palling around you and yours, but every time you remember that I need blood to survive, you suddenly go all Anita Blake on me."

"Anita Blake ended up _sleeping_ with more vampires and lycanthropes than she killed," Marissa responded distastefully.

"Well, there's always hope, isn't there?" Spike joked.

With a cringe, Marissa stepped into her house and muttered, "You're disgusting."

"Yeah, you've said that to me before, pet," Spike told her. "And even so, you still had conversations with me about religion and movies and the whole lot. So unless you think there are monsters who enjoy a good discourse about the origins of Christianity before they flail and boil their victims, you know I'm not a monster."

"You're a _va_-," Marissa cried, but stopped before her voice could alert the neighbors. After making sure no one was around, she turned back to Spike and hissed, "You're a _vampire_. I don't know if you've noticed, but those monster movies we were talking about the other night consisted of movies about _vampires_. By nature, you _are_ a monster."

"By nature, I'm a _man_," Spike retorted. Putting a hand to his heart, he sharply continued, "I was born as a _man_. The soul within me is that of a _man_. But for a good portion of my life, that soul was gone. _That_ was when I was a monster. _That_ was when I did things that'd make you lose sleep, if not your lunch." Putting his hand down, he went on, "I can't atone for what I did, Marissa. So I'm not going to strive for something I'll never be able to reach. I'm not going to waste the time that I could spend saving the world by standing her on your doorstep every night, trying to get you to trust me. Buffy was the first to trust me. Then Angel. Now it looks like Patch and Oz are willing to jump on the bandwagon. But if you don't want to trust me, if you don't want to believe that there are worse things coming to Woodridge than one little ensouled vamp and a couple of wolves and a pixie, then by all means, go inside. Close the door. Walk away."

After his speech, Spike watched her reaction carefully. She wasn't a Slayer, nor was she any other kind of superhuman. She was only a girl, hateful and frightened; neither of those qualities had ever appealed to Spike. Yet he couldn't deny that it ticked him off to see that she _wanted_ to believe him, _wanted_ to trust him, _wanted_ to even continue on with their training, but wouldn't allow herself that just because he was something other than human.

Seeing her expression soften somewhat, Spike followed suit and reached into his inside jacket pocket. Getting out the compact umbrella designed with rubber ducks that she had loaned him the week before, he said, "Got something for you. If you're willing to come out here and take it."

Spying the umbrella, Marissa's eyes met Spike's. Taking a step back, she hoarsely whispered, "Why? You're not willing to step inside and give it to me?"

Thinking that he had managed to get through to her, Spike smirked and moved to step inside. His smile fell away when he realized that he couldn't. Looking around the doorframe and testing the threshold with both hands, he found that he was kept back by a familiar invisible barrier despite having been invited into the house before.

"A present from Xander," Marissa explained, quickly snatching the umbrella out of his hand as though afraid he'd pull her out of the safety of her home. "It undoes a vampire's invitation. Funny; I guess your soul doesn't have much sway in this house."

Before letting the door slam in his face, she told him, "_That's_ how much I trust you, Spike."

* * *

"Okay, I'm just a little confused," Harmony confessed.

"Only a little?" Sadrahd sarcastically murmured under his breath. Completing the circle of sandalwood twigs around the candles in the center of the room, he stood up and looked at her. "It's m-magic, Harmony. If you don't practice it, y-you're _supposed_ to be confused."

Thinking on this, Harmony smiled. "Oh. Good." Watching the vengeance demon light the candles in the center of the circle, she remarked, "I'm _so_ glad I'm dating you and not Spike right now. He would've just been like, 'You're too stupid to understand, Harmony. Go... bloody... away.'... Or something." Skipping towards him, she laid her hands on his chest and dreamily added, "But _you_, you just sit back and do all the thinking for us, all without making me feel like less of a woman. You're the best, Rahddy-kins!"

Grabbing her hands, Sadrahd replied, "Harmony, I appreciate th-the sentiment, b-but we should really focus on the spell right now."

"Oh," Harmony stated. After a moment's thought, she asked, "Well, can we have sex later then?"

Gaping at her, Sadrahd was too stunned to answer before finally responding with, "Yes. Of course." Seeing her satisfied smile as she turned away, he had a good feeling that he knew why Spike had dumped her. Why a vampire as temperamental as he was hadn't _killed _her by now was another matter altogether. Trying to ignore that, he turned his attention to the ritual he was practicing. "Pass me the jar of blood I set aside."

Stopping, Harmony widened her eyes and asked, "Um... you mean the jar you told me to bring in?"

"Yes."

Biting her fingernail nervously, Harmony gave Sadrahd an apologetic look. After a moment, Sadrahd disbelievingly asked, "You didn't... oh _balls_, you did, didn't you?"

"I was hungry!"

"Harmony, th-that was _vampire_ blood!"

"Oh, ew," Harmony cringed. "I thought it had just gone bad or something. At least I didn't drink all of it."

"You didn't?" Sadrahd queried, relieved.

"No," she reluctantly brought up. "I dumped the rest of it in the sewer."

Shifting uncomfortably under Sadrahd's glare, Harmony readied herself for the screaming that she was used to from the previous men in her life. It really wasn't her fault this time! When you tell a hungry vampire to grab a jar of blood, what else is that vampire going to do?

She was pleasantly surprised when Sadrahd merely sighed and told her, "C-come here, Harmony." Stepping into the circle once again, she allowed Sadrahd to take one of her hands as he calmly stated, "We're aiming to b-bring back a v-v-v-_very_ important enemy of Spike's. Someone who won't just kill him, but make sure that all of his friends suffer, including the Harris girl. I want her to go through so much p-pain, it'll bring Xander Harris back here in hysterics."

Harmony cried out at the sudden sting as Sadrahd used a small pocketknife to cut a deep gash into the palm of her hand. "I will _not_ let you ruin my fun," he told her darkly. "If you m-mess this up, I'll gladly go to Spike and get _him_ to make a wish of his own regarding you. Understood?"

"You're just as mean as Spike is," Harmony realized.

"Spike doesn't have my powers," Sadrahd told her. "I'm meaner. By a long shot."

This insight brought another pleased smile to Harmony's lips. It took a while for it to dawn on Sadrahd that, as a vampire, of _course_ the promise of being "mean" was going to be intriguing, if not flat-out arousing. Before he could allow himself to get carried away in that lustful look in her eyes, Sadrahd shook his head and look down at her hand, squeezing it so that droplets of blood fell into the flames of the candles in between them. She murmured a quiet "ow," but nothing else.

"Are you sure you don't know Spike's r-real name?" Sadrahd asked. "It works better if his true name is included in the incantation."

Shaking her head, Harmony answered, "I've heard it once or twice, but I can't remember. It was something boring, like John or Mike or something." Pondering to herself, she listed off, "David, George, Wilson... oh! Wilson! No, wait... that's not it, either."

"It's okay," he told her, taking each of her hands in his as the darkness seemed to begin closing in. "M-maybe it'll work just as well this way. We're calling to the enemy of his Spike persona, n-not his human self. Now keep quiet. My stuttering's bad enough without worrying about any other slip-ups."

Harmony nodded as he closed his eyes. She had been very proud of him, as he had managed to greatly reduce his stutter as they prepared for the spell. She'd have to figure out some way to reward him for that. And oh look; his Latin was just so cute! It was like dating one of those nerds from the chess club for help on a chemistry test! ... only, with less gross and more dark magic.

As Sadrahd continued his chanting, Harmony thought long and hard. She had heard Spike's real name before, plenty of times. It had been on file at Wolfram and Hart, hadn't it? Not that she had actually _read_ any of those files while she was working there, but she knew she had come across it once or twice.

The flames between their feet began to crackle as the darkness nearly enveloped the two of them. Sadrahd could feel the dark energy rising and forced himself not to stutter. So far, so good. Bringing this thing back would be complicated enough without him or Harmony inadvertently messing up. His demonic face forcing itself out, Sadrahd threw his head back and called out, "_Reverto. Reverto suus pessimus hostilis,_-"

"William!"

Blinking, Sadrahd gaped up at Harmony in horror. Blissfully unaware of what she had just done, she was grinning proudly and nodding her head. "That's his name," she proclaimed. "William. I can't remember his last name, though-"

"Harmony, you idiot!" Sadrahd managed to scream just when an intense green light flashed and something akin to a tremendous bolt of electricity knocked both of them on opposite sides of the room. Sadrahd crashed against the stone wall of the lair and fell to the floor.

Forcing himself onto his elbows, Sadrahd watched the shadowy figure materialize in the center of the circle as it slowly took form amidst the black smoke. Oh, no. Oh, this wasn't good. They hadn't brought back Spike's worst enemy. Because of Harmony's interruption, they had brought back something else entirely.

And that something else was going to cause one _hell_ of a series of punitive damages.

* * *

Walking in through the backdoor of Jordy's house, Spike gawked at the people gathered in the kitchen.

Spotting Oz, Spike pointed towards Robbie and Violet and asked, "What the hell are _they_ doing here?" The younger werewolf and the faerie looked up at him, then glanced back to Oz as though waiting for him to explain.

"Relax, Peroxide Man," Oz told him, grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator. "Cousin Jordy's a civilian, remember? He's allowed to have friends over. Just so happens that they have a test to study for."

"Oh, bollocks!" Spike scoffed.

"No, it's true," Robbie insisted.

"No, it's not," Violet contradicted.

"Violet!" Robbie argued.

"What?" Violet asked. As though realizing something, she corrected, "Oh, I meant it's not true for me. For Robbie, yes. He and Jordy are undergrads in the same psych class. Not me. I'm a grad student. I'm just here because Robbie said you were going to talk to Marissa, so I decided to tag along and see what the latest word on her is."

"Oh, so this is the Marissa Harris Fan Club," Spike realized. "And here I thought the lot of you were aiming on becoming the next generation of Scoobies."

"Of what?" Robbie asked.

"Long story," Spike responded.

"Our nickname when we used to save the world," Oz elaborated.

"Or not so long," Spike amended. To Robbie, he said, "Your name didn't come up in conversation with the pup. Truth be told, no one's did. She still expects to see us all hiding in her closet as she goes to sleep, and even worked some mojo to keep my out of the house."

"Oh yeah, Xander offered to do the spell here, too," Oz revealed.

"And you didn't take him up on that?" Spike asked, surprised.

"Figured it'd just be more fun to stake you if you get vicious," Oz replied.

"Oh, it's gonna be loads of fun working with _you_, Sparky," Spike bitterly answered. "Speaking of, send the kiddies off to their study group so we can have ourselves a talk. This ghost business isn't going to solve itself, you know."

"Ooh, we have ghosts?" Violet eagerly asked.

"Come on, Vy," Robbie told her, pulling her away. "It's none of our business."

"Says you," Violet replied, arching away from him. "_I_ don't have to study." Turning to Spike and Oz, she added, "Besides, now that at least the group of you know what I am and can accept me regardless, I should view you as my real friends and do what I can to help. Especially considering that you could use what little magic I've got on hand to your benefit." Quirking an eyebrow at Spike, she mentioned, "That _is_ what you told me last week, right?"

"It _does_ sound suspiciously like logic," Oz remarked.

Spike thought about it for a moment before shrugging his shoulders. "Couldn't hurt. Trade in a redheaded witch for a redheaded pixie. Bone up on your magic, and you might actually be of some use. We've reached our werewolf quota, however, so Hercules can go crack the books."

While Oz was mildly annoyed by the constant references to Willow ever since Spike entered the picture, he was good at keeping his irritations out of the conversation. "Jordy's still looking for his psych book," he told Robbie. "If you've got a machete, you can find your way around his room."

"Joy of joys," Robbie remarked sarcastically. "I'm going to go immerse myself in the inner workings of the occipital lobe."

"Not literally, I hope," Violet called as Robbie left the kitchen. "Brain fluids smell funny." Seeing the perplexed glances she got from Oz and Spike, she quickly explained, "I'm a pre-med student."

"Magic _and_ first-aid," Spike noted. "The Powers That Be finally cut us a bit of a break."

"The Powers That What?" Violet asked, surprised.

"Long story," Spike repeated.

"Balance the cosmic scales so that good triumphs," Oz elucidated.

"Where in the hell did everyone learn to be so terse?" Spike inquired.

"Tibetan monks," Oz replied. This time, it was _his_ turn to receive the odd looks. "Well, maybe I didn't learn it from them, but they helped." Hoisting himself up to sit on the kitchen counter, he asked Spike, "So what's the latest word on our otherworldly visitors?"

"They got their first victim," Spike answered. "First newsworthy one, anyway. A woman by the name of Eileen Taylor, age thirty-eight. She ran home and claimed that her dead husband revealed he'd purposely walked into the street and allowed himself to get mowed down because he couldn't stand her cheating on him anymore. She rambled the whole story out to her twelve-year-old son just before hanging herself."

"In front of her son?" Violet asked, aghast.

"The papers never said," Spike replied.

"Yeah, I think Aunt Maureen was telling me about this," Oz realized, reaching over for the newspaper on the countertop adjacent to him. Sifting through the pages, he quickly found the article and skimmed through it. "Got it. Husband's name was Maxwell Taylor. He was killed in an automobile accident three years ago." Taking a pen out of his pocket, Oz set about to underlining various bits of information from the article.

"So, what, do we try to contact Maxwell from the great beyond?" Violet asked. "Because honestly, I suck at the Ouija board. Or are we putting his name up with a list of other ghosts, and see if we can find some common ground?"

"I'm not one for Ouija boards myself," Oz agreed, still scribbling. "Unfortunately, we don't have the names of any other ghosts."

"Yes we do," Spike suddenly remembered. "Joe Pollock. A university student, died a few months ago."

"Joe?!" Violet blurted out. "No way. He was like my little brother."

"So you knew him?" Oz asked.

"Yeah," she replied. "He had a class with me and Marissa."

"Anything stand out about him near the end?" Spike queried. "Mannerisms, clothing, a sudden interest in black magic or declaring his eternal servitude to a heathen god of some sort?"

With a reproachful glare to Spike, Violet responded, "Joe Pollock was as normal as normal kids come. Outside from peppering the occasional bland conversation with an amusing anecdote, he would usually fade into the background like a piece of scenery."

"So you're saying he was ignored while he was alive," Oz discerned.

"What? No!" Violet protested. "No, he had friends. Plenty of friends. But not so much that he'd be considered popular. He got good grades, but not enough to be an honor student. He was a happy kid with a good home life, but there was just nothing exceptional about him or the way he died."

"Murder's always exceptional," Spike told her.

"He _wasn't_ murdered," Violet argued. "He had an accident. Fell down the-"

"Yeah, I know, fell down the stairs, broke his scrawny little neck," Spike interrupted. "And he fell down the stairs because he and dear old dad were having a fight. It was no accident, sweetheart. His ghost attacked your friend Marissa in the cemetery less than two weeks ago. Showed her the whole sordid story. If it weren't for me, who knows what she would have done?"

As Violet silently reeled from the horrifying news, Oz answered, "She could have sought out his dad and done something to him. Enacted some kind of revenge."

"Or she could've felt guilty for not seeing the signs of domestic abuse and done something to _herself_," Spike stated. "Our own problems are hard enough. Being forced to experience someone else's troubles-especially when it results in death-can be enough to break a normal person. Lucky for me, I've had some experience when it comes to countless years of guilt and torment, so I'm virtually immune. Fair play to the immortal bloke with the soul."

"I don't believe this," Violet breathed. "I just... I just don't believe that Joe could be capable of... of _fighting_. Joe couldn't have died that way, he couldn't have done that to Marissa."

"Well if he didn't," Oz asked, "who did?"

"Death does a lot to a person," Spike proclaimed. "You're stuck in a hell dimension enduring what seems like centuries worth of torment, and if you happen to find yourself back in the world of the living, you discover that only a few short days have passed since you were declared a stiff. Except for the few who manage to make their way into some place akin to what we know of as Heaven, the dead have a natural resentment towards the living. If this Maxwell bloke suddenly found himself face-to-face with the woman he blamed for his death, no doubt he'd be cruel. And if our boy Joe sees someone his own age walking about with a pulse, jealousy's sure to be on the rise."

"So maybe we already have a common link between the ghosts," Oz realized, putting the newspaper down. "They're all dead."

"Diehard optimist here," Violet declared, raising her hand. "You're _not_ going to convince me that the very best among us get into some Paradise while the rest of us become warped, twisted ghosts who get our kicks from other people's misery."

"She's got a point," Spike agreed. "The dead are flawed, at best. But inherently evil? Not quite, and especially not this common. Someone's pulling the strings."

"And I believe we're at that place commonly referred to as square one," Oz remarked, tossing his pen on the counter. He was about to suggest that they head to the library in hopes of finding demonology texts halfway as useful as the ones Giles had, but stopped when the lights suddenly went out.

"Um, guys?" Violet asked, reaching out in front of her.

"It's okay," Oz told her, jumping down off the counter. "Probably someone just blew a fuse or something."

Spike, however, didn't think the answer was so simple. And for someone as powerful as a "transcended" wolf, he was fairly certain that Oz's words were just for Violet's benefit. Moving towards the door, Spike opened it and stepped outside into the yard. No porch lights were on. The streetlights were dead. And judging by the way the air tingled against his skin, he was fairly certain that the source of this wasn't a fuse box.

"Hey Oz," Jordy called as he headed down the stairs, "the lights went out."

"Astute observation," Oz noted, stepping in besides Spike to observe the neighborhood.

Feeling Jordy and Robbie's presences behind him, Spike called out to Violet. When she stepped behind him, he asked, "You lived in town your whole life?"

"Huh? Oh, no. Most of it, though. Moved here when I was three."

"Get your jacket," Spike told her. "You too, Hercules." Turning around, he looked at Jordy's thin silhouette besides that of his older cousin's. "You stay here and keep your mum company. Oz, grab a set of torches."

When Jordy asked where they were going, Oz replied, "Ghost hunting, apparently."

* * *

"Rahd, what did we do?"

Pacing, Sadrahd initially ignored Harmony's query as he wondered what to do about the confused figure that was coughing in the smoke. "W-w-w-_we_ did nothing," he finally attested, his stutter more pronounced due to his rage. "Y-y-y-y-_you_. All you. D-d-damn it, Harmony! D'Hoffryn's g-g-going to skin me alive if we d-don't fix this!" Stopping, he realized that he had more important concerns than the backlash from his superiors. "That is, if the P-P-Powers That Be don't get us first."

"Whoa, hold on, 'us'?" Harmony asked, stepping away from her corner of the room and closer to Sadrahd. "If those dumb Powers That Whatever get involved, I'm not sticking around for that. There _is_ no us. I already escaped their goody-goody wrath when I broke up with Marcus from Wolfram and Hart. And he was a _lot_ better in bed than you are, so I'm not going to stand by my man if it involves-"

"Is it physically _impossible_ for you to just _shut up_?" Sadrahd screamed. He was satisfied with her shocked expression, though he knew that it probably had more to do with his scarred vengeance demon face than any fear she actually had of him. "It's your self-involved b-babbling that got us in this mess in the first p-place!"

Crossing her arms over her chest, Harmony huffed and turned away from him. "I don't see what the big deal is, anyway," she murmured, looking at the being slowly stepping out from around the circle of sandalwood. "I mean, he's just some skinny little dork that we poofed here by accident. I don't get why that should be such a huge-" She cut herself off, finally able to see his face. "Wait a minute.... I know him!"

Seeming hopeful, the stranger asked, "Do you? I don't see how that's possible, but I'd be much obliged if you'd tell me how we know one another and how I've come to find myself here." With a look around the underground lair, he added, "Judging by your dialects, clothing and the... unusual décor, it seems like a significant departure from the alleys of London."

"Why are you talking like that?" Harmony inquired, crinkling her nose. Whirling around to look at Sadrahd, she found that she was both worried and yet also excited when she asked, "Did something happen to him? Did we, like, make him all crazy in the brain again?"

"No, you insufferable d-d-_dolt_," Sadrahd sneered. "Y-you interrupted my spell, remember? I w-w-was supposed to b-bring back Spike's worst enemy. Instead, when I was g-going to integrate that n-name in the incantation, you called out William." Turning to Harmony, he raised his voice and pointed to the newcomer as he chastised, "You said his _true name_ in the m-middle of a spell! Th-that's not Spike standing there; that's William! That's his _human self_!"

"I say," William brought up, taking a step towards Sadrahd, "I don't understand what's going on around here, but there's no reason to speak so harshly towards a young lady." Seeing the demonic face that spun around to glower at him, William made a startled sound and jumped back. "Then again, I've been wrong before."

"No way!" Harmony exclaimed, heading towards William. Stopping only inches away from his face, she observed him carefully as she marveled, "_This_ is what he looked like back then? No wonder he decided to go blond." With an excited squeal, she put a finger on his left eyebrow and told Sadrahd, "Look, it's true! His adorable little scar's gone!"

"Miss," William said, uncomfortably backing away, "you must be thinking of someone else. I've no scar, and to be frank, your and your... friend's behavior seems to be bordering on madness. On the other hand, _I'm_ the one who stepped into a fog and suddenly found myself in a cavern with a beautiful woman and an imp." A strong blush rose to his cheeks as he looked to Harmony and apologized, "Pardon my forwardness, miss." To Sadrahd, he added, "And my bluntness, sir."

As he spoke, Harmony's face twisted into one of shocked revulsion. "Oh my God," she realized. "He's so... oh. I never wanted to see my little blondie bear like this."

"Harmony, y-you're trying to k-kill him," Sadrahd reminded her.

"I know that!" Harmony snapped. With a pout, she explained, "It's just... well... he was my first major boyfriend after I got turned, and there'll always be a place in my heart for my little Spikey-poo. And seeing him like _this_... ugh."

As though suddenly stumbling upon a comforting thought, she looked up and realized, "Wait... maybe that's the point. Maybe the Powers That Be decided to reward me for being strong enough to leave Wolfram and Hart by myself. So now, I have my very own Spike to play with, starting from scratch!"

William screamed as the charming (if somewhat vapid) young woman's face _changed_ in front of him. Her blue eyes turned a sickly yellow color, and her smooth face became rough with marked ridges. What terrified him most of all was the sight of razor-sharp teeth in a predatory grin. "Best of all," she finished, "I won't have to worry about living in that Drusilla's shadow."

Harmony was about to dart after the human as he turned and ran, but Sadrahd pulled her back. "You idiot! You can't t-t-turn him into a vampire!"

Pouting, Harmony asked, "Why not?"

Moving to stand in front of her in an effort to face her down despite her height advantage, Sadrahd told her, "W-we don't know where he's from! If he's from another d-d-d-dimension, then fine; do whatever you want with him. B-b-but if he's from _our_ timeline, turning him now could have a d-drastic effect on the future. Spike's killed a lot of people, and he's also saved a lot of them. We have n-n-no idea what the w-world would be like if he turns vampire like this."

"So?" Harmony asked. "If it ends up sucking, can't I just wish for it to all go back to normal and you'll make it happen?"

"N-n-_no_!" Sadrahd cried out. "For all I know, his existence here is _already_ affecting the w-world at large and we'll find that we don't know each other. The next time you b-b-blink, you could cease to exist." Seeing that this still wasn't getting through to Harmony, he sighed and added, "Y-you'd look in the mirror and s-see someone who looks nearly thirty years old."

"Oh my God!" Harmony gasped, horrified. "No! Really? Oh God, Sadrahd, we've got to get that nerd back here and send him back to wherever he came from!"

"Glad you've gained p-perspective," Sadrahd muttered, looking towards the exit. William had effectively run off, but there was no point in both of them chasing after him. "You track him. Bring him b-back, _alive_. I'll stay here and see if I can't f-f-figure out how to undo what you did."

"What _I_ did?" Harmony shot back. "Oh sure, _always_ blame the hot vampire chick."

* * *

"Why do I feel like I belong in an Abbott and Costello movie?" Violet asked.

Robbie shot her a look from the corner of his eye. They were cautiously walking behind Spike and Oz, both of whom seemed to know where they going. As far as Robbie could tell, they were headed in the general direction of the cemetery, but in a roundabout way. And judging by the way the two supernatural beings in front of them kept tilting their heads and headed in the same direction without speaking to one another, he could bet that they were tracking something.

"Abbott and Costello were classy," Oz mentioned, though he seemed distracted. "Less with the apocalypses, more with the smacking one another with their hats. None of us wear hats, which sets us significantly lower on the classy meter."

"Not that I know who these Abbott and Costello guys were," Robbie brought up, "but I don't think we should be too concerned with being 'classy.' I mean, it looks like the lights suddenly went out all over town, and Spike hasn't said a word since we left Jordy's. And judging by the way the hair on the back of my neck is standing up, I'm thinking there's something neither of you are telling us."

"Then you feel it, too," Spike murmured, still looking around for some sight unseen. "That makes three out of the four. What about you, Pixie?"

Bundled up in her green wool pea coat, Violet looked up at the mention of what she had come to accept as Spike's nickname for her. Saying nothing at first, she finally offered, "I don't know. I feel off, but I can't tell what it is. It's like my skin's gone all... tingly."

"Great," Robbie remarked. "So what exactly's happening?"

"Something big, kiddies," Spike responded. "Something that shouldn't be happening. It's as though the world's changing little by little."

"A reality shift?" Oz asked. "Oh great, it's been a while since a good one of _those_ cropped up."

"Not a reality shift," Spike corrected, stopping. As the group came to a halt around him, he cocked his head as though listening for something. "Just something... happening. Something that could tip the scales. Just wish it'd hurry up and reveal what sort of tip we're talking about here."

After a moment during which all of them glanced around the empty streets, Robbie asked, "Why did we stop? Is something here?"

Oz was staring under an unlit streetlamp, his eyes far away. "Yes," he comprehended. "Something's here." He knew this place. He had never actually been in this part of the neighborhood, but he had a newspaper clipping of this exact location. Even though it had been seven or eight years before, he was glad that Jordy wasn't here. "This is where Uncle Ken died."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than an eerie form began taking shape in the darkness under the streetlight. While Spike tensed up and Violet cringed against Robbie, Oz balled his hands into fists at his sides and stepped in front of the group. "Oz," Violet said, "stay back-"

"He had a stroke," Oz stated resolutely, staring at the being that had definitely took the form of Jordy's father. "It was a completely natural death. If this thing tries to tell me different, then it's not really him. Someone's just using other people's faces."

While Spike agreed with the idea in theory, that didn't make him any more willing to see Oz get himself sucked into a mind game. Without him, Spike would need to figure out how to handle two less-than-normal werewolves all by himself. Seeing as how he'd never been a big fan of werewolves, that thought didn't exactly sit well with him.

Oz braced himself when he saw the specter fly towards him. If these ghosts forced others to see their final moments, then this shouldn't be traumatizing. Not unless the ghosts were lying and using some kind of mind control on their victims, in which case they weren't real ghosts at all, but something else. Unfortunately, he didn't know that they didn't just reveal details of their deaths.

When Oz fell back and nearly crashed into Spike, it wasn't this shady corner in Woodridge that he saw in front of his eyes. Instead, he suddenly found himself walking down a vaguely familiar street and feeling a small hand in one of his. Looking down, he saw a six-year-old Jordy smiling up at him. This was a long time before Uncle Ken died. This might've even been before Jordy was-

He, or rather, Uncle Ken, looked up at the sound of growling from around the corner. Though Oz realized that the moon was full and that they were in Sunnydale, his uncle clearly hadn't known anything about the town's strange history. As far as he knew, it was a dog, and dogs weren't anything to be afraid of.

When the werewolf lunged into view, Oz felt his uncle's fear as his veins seemed to suddenly fill with ice rather than blood. While Oz would have pulled Jordy away and beat the wolf back, he was horrified by what happened instead. His hand slipped away from Jordy's, and he found himself running off in the opposite direction, leaving Jordy behind to fend for himself as the werewolf approached. _What are you doing?_ Oz screamed out inside his head. _You _left_ him? You _left_ him behind?! You _let_ your son get bitten by a werewolf?_

It wasn't until Spike smacked him soundly across the face that Oz slowly began coming out of it. "He left him," he rambled. "Left him to... you just _left_ him?!"

"What's he talking about?" Violet asked, concerned.

"Talking rot, that's what," Spike realized, looking up from the fallen man to the ghost that returned to its place under the streetlight. "He's seeing something that ain't there. For all we know, he's seeing something that never was."

"No," Oz breathed, pushing himself up into a sitting position. His eyes met that of the ghost's, and he pointed to it accusingly. "Keep him away from me," he growled. "I never want to see that son of a bitch again."

As soon as he realized that Oz's wolf form was on the verge of slipping out, Robbie pulled Violet away from him and crouched besides Oz. "Keep it together, man," he told him. "You said so yourself; whatever he made you see, it can't be real."

"It's real," Oz affirmed, still glaring at the ghost.

"It's not just a matter of seeing the manner of death," Spike informed them. "These buggers can make you see things. Things you've done, things they've done. Anything to inspire hate or any other sort of strong reaction, even from someone as metaphorically cool as a cucumber." Rising to his feet, he harshly pulled Oz up to his and sternly told him, "You go all pooch on me, and I'll collar you so fast your head'll spin around in circles, you got that?"

Though it took him a moment, Oz rubbed the back of his neck and looked down. "Just keep him away," he said lowly as the wolf in him began to subside. He wondered if Aunt Maureen knew how Jordy had gotten bitten, and he decided he'd have to have a talk with his younger cousin to verify what he had seen. He had never asked how Jordy got bitten, but he would have never thought it had been as a result of Uncle Ken's cowardice.

"Uh, guys?" Violet brought up. "Call me a crazy optimist, if you want, but let's try looking on the bright side. We were looking for a ghost. This might not be the one we wanted, but it _is_ a ghost. Now we can make some headway in figuring out why they're driving people crazy."

"And how do you propose that?" Spike asked bitterly.

"Well," Violet offered, "we could just _ask_."

Spike was about to argue until he realized, "Huh. Crazy enough that it might just work, at that." Approaching the ghost, he put on an uncompromising face and said, "So, Uncle Ken, yeah? We're gonna try the straightforward approach, and if that doesn't work...." With a grin, he continued, "We'll try it the fun way. So unless you want a couple of supernatural bodies going around desecrating your grave with the intention of bringing you back from the great beyond for a little half-assed poke and prod, I'm thinking it'll be in your best interests to give us whatever answers we're looking for right off the bat. What do you say?"

"It's all coming down," came the response from the ghost. "Everything is coming down."

Blinking, Spike remarked, "Huh... _that_ was helpful. In a very vague, not-helpful-at-all sort of way. _What's_ coming down?"

"This," replied the phantom. "That. Everything in between."

"This is almost as bad as using a Ouija board," Violet muttered.

"Look," Spike told him, "if you don't start talking sense soon-"

"She's so enlightening," Uncle Ken interrupted, looking down. "So liberating. And you denied her. You wrecked her. She was dancing to the music of the grave, at the height of her power, and you ruined her." He suddenly looked up, glaring directly at the vampire. "The world is ending, Spike. And it's _your_ fault."

"You've got a knack for pissing off the wrong people," Robbie asked, "don't you?"

Ignoring Robbie's comment, Spike narrowed his eyes at the angry ghost. "So my sins are catching up to me. What a bleedin' surprise. I seem to be noticing that my kicks to the crotch seem to be delivered by lots of lady-folk. You wanna clarify which 'she' we're talking about here? There were a whole lot of she's in my time."

"Not that he's bragging," Violet uttered.

"You know," Uncle Ken told him. "You know which one it was. You've always known. It's the first she. The first." He looked past Spike then, seeing movement behind the group of them. "She'll come. She always comes back for what's hers."

"Hey!" Spike called out, stepping towards the ghost as it disappeared. "Still not helpful!"

"The First," Oz remarked. "He mentioned the First."

"Yeah, I'm trying to ignore that fact and hope for something less complicated."

"What's the First?" Violet asked, having looked back to follow the ghost's gaze. "Because I sure hope _that_ isn't it."

Spike whirled around at Violet's words, nearly praying that they wouldn't encounter the First at _all_, much less as unprepared as they currently were. He caught sight of someone emerging from a sewer opening about two blocks away, and the very fact that she was corporeal enough to climb out allowed him to answer, "No. From the looks of it, that's just your standard vamp." Seeing the tight bright red jeans the blonde vampire was wearing as she pulled herself out of the manhole, Spike cocked his head. "Hold on, I've seen that ass before."

While the werewolves and the faerie exchanged bemused glances, Spike slowly approached the blonde who was dusting herself off as she tried to nudge the manhole cover back in place with her foot. Judging by her obliviousness to his presence, Spike didn't even need to ask to be sure of her identity. "Harmony."

With a startled gasp, Harmony spun around. "Spike!" She began fixing her long hair before putting her hands back down, as though thinking better of it. Opening her mouth, she didn't seem to know what else to say before finally squeaking out, "Hi."

"Hi," Spike greeted with a genial smile. "What a small world, eh? I haven't seen you since... oh yeah." Quickly withdrawing the stake he had in his pocket, he coldly finished, "Since you stabbed Angel in the back and tried to get me killed."

"What? No!" Harmony exclaimed, taking a step back and putting her hands up in defense. "I don't know what you're talking about! Angel _totally_ staked himself! I never touched him, honest!"

"It's a figure of speech, you stupid bint," Spike told her. "Means you betrayed him. And you set me up to take a nasty fall. I'm thinking it's time that someone repays you for all of the minor annoyances you've caused."

"We haven't even been talking for a full minute and you're already being all grumpy!" Harmony whined. She was about to say more, but she caught sight of the group of people coming up behind Spike. Surprised, Harmony grinned widely and called, "Oz? Oh my God, hi! How've you been?"

"I've had better days," Oz replied.

"Yeah, tell me about it," Harmony muttered, moving to approach him. "You wouldn't _believe_ the night I've had-" She almost squealed when Spike darted in front of her and blocked her way, vamp-face at the ready.

"We're not interested in your bad night," Spike growled. "We've sort of got an apocalypse to stop. Funny how you always find yourself busy when you're being useful."

"Hey, I've been useful!" Harmony protested. "I was just helping my new boyfriend with this spell and... actually, I kinda messed it up, which is why I'm up here." Realizing that she probably said more than she should have, she quickly added, "Not that that's any of your business!"

"Spell?" Spike asked. "What kind of spell?"

"Oh, there you go, being all nice when you want to know something."

"Harmony, tell me what you did or I'll smash your face into the pavement."

"Did you _not_ hear me say that I've got a new boyfriend?" Harmony petulantly asked. "If it weren't for the fact that I need to track you down before I start getting old, I'd _totally_ wish you into a cockroach... but one that isn't so gross, so I don't get sick when I squish you."

"Track me down?" Spike queried. "What, are you blind or did you just... wait. Did you say 'wish'?" Remembering about his conversation with Clem, he barked out, "Harmony, are you shagging a vengeance demon?!"

"Maybe," Harmony yelped. "Or maybe I'm just... um... gonna do this." With that, she suddenly lurched forward and pushed Spike as hard as she could. As he fell backwards against Robbie, she took the opportunity to jump back into the sewer. When she landed heavily on her feet, she murmured, "Ow."

Thinking fast, Oz stepped forward and got out a small vial of holy water that he kept in his jacket after learning he'd be spending time with Spike on a regular basis. Opening it, he poured it down the sewer, hoping at least some of it would get Harmony. Judging by the second and sharper "Ow" that echoed from beneath him, he had managed to scald her at least a little.

To Spike, Oz said, "She's hurt. I can track the smell of the burn and keep up with her."

"Take Hercules with you," Spike replied, pushing Robbie towards him. "Pixie 'n me are gonna see if we can figure out what this bloody spell is so she can reverse it."

"We are?" Violet asked.

"I told you you were going to bone up on your magic." As Robbie and Oz hurried down into the sewer, Spike looked around the surrounding area, searching. Sniffing the air experimentally, he remarked, "She said she was trying to track me down."

"Well, she found you," Violet replied.

"It's not me she was looking for," Spike responded, his face returning to its human appearance. Still searching the premises, he mumbled, "If she wanted me, she wouldn't come after me on her own. She'd come with this boyfriend of hers, thinking she can rub that sort of thing in my face."

"Let me guess," Violet said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Old girlfriend?"

"Back from my evil days."

"Yeesh," Violet shuddered. "So I'm guessing this 'vengeance demon' that she's with now isn't exactly just a nickname, huh?"

"She makes a wish," Spike told her, still on alert, "he grants it. Luckily for me, she's not as intelligent as the _other_ ex I had thought it was, so I'm probably going to end up getting off with nothing but a bad hair day."

"How would you be able to tell?"

"Hey!"

"Sorry," Violet remarked. "It's just... wow, you weren't kidding when you said you had a bunch of girls that were out to kick you in the 'nads. Do I have to worry that I'm going to suddenly turn against you, too?"

"Well, if you do, you're either wrong or evil." With a smirk, he commented, "Either of those would be reason enough for me to kill you in a heartbeat, since I've got it on good authority that I'm not fighting for the wrong side."

"Luckily for me, you don't have a heartbeat," Violet said. After a moment during which Spike continued to skim the vicinity with his eyes, she brought up, "Which side _is_ it that you're fighting for, Mister Vampire With a Soul?"

"The side that seems to give you the heebie-jeebies, from the looks of it." Turning his attention to the surprised girl, Spike stated, "Don't think I didn't notice that start you had when we mentioned the Powers That Be earlier."

"I didn't start."

"Did too."

"I didn't!" Violet affirmed. "I just... I've heard of them before, and I'm surprised you have, too. I don't hear people outside of my family talking about the Powers or anything. Next you're going to tell me you're chummy with an Old One."

"Matter of fact...."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Name of Illyria. Looks a bit like an overgrown Smurf."

"I'm not familiar with Illyria," Violet replied. "But you do _not_ refer to one of the Old Ones as a Smurf. That tends to invoke all sorts of bad karma, or whatever it is that comes around once it goes around. She's not your ex-girlfriend too, is she? Because speaking of things that go around, it seems like you've been doing a bang-up job at that yourself over the centuries."

"_Century_," Spike corrected. "Only one century. And a half. And no, I've been insane, but never insane enough to give the Blue Wonder a go. She made a nasty first impression on me, and it's hard to look past that." After another look around, he shook his head and remarked, "There's nothing here. Harm must've gotten herself turned around in the sewers if she thought she was trailing something up here. All these years and she still couldn't find an ice cube in Antarctica. C'mon. Assuming you have some magic books lying around, we should go back to your flat and see if we can at least determine what it is she did to make the lights go out and set us all on edge."

After that, he was going to have to fill Oz in on more details about the First.

* * *

"So this First," Robbie asked, "how much do you know about it?"

Still on the hunt for Harmony, Oz quietly replied, "Just the major points. Short for First Evil. Destroyed Sunnydale. Can't be killed. Has reason to hate Spike and anyone else that was fighting against it that fateful day. You?"

"Pretty much the same," Robbie remarked, noticeably put off by the whole thing. "Plus, Spike told me it liked to pretend to be this Buffy girl that he was apparently into. Made it easier for it to control him. Speaking of, am I the only person who's a little uneasy about the fact that not only was Spike a soulless killer, but the ultimate evil managed to manipulate him even _after_ he joined the good guys?"

"On the contrary," Oz responded. "I was beginning to feel like I was the only one."

"Then why are we down here?" Robbie inquired, stopping. "Maybe he wanted to get us away so he could.... I mean, he hasn't done anything bad lately, but after everything I've heard, I just... maybe we shouldn't have-"

"You're afraid he's going to hurt Violet," Oz realized, coming to a halt and looking at Robbie. When the younger man nodded, Oz glanced down, trying to figure out the way to say what was on his mind. "Spike isn't my friend," he finally said, meeting Robbie's eyes. "But Xander is. And while Xander didn't give me any details, he believes that Spike's not all bad. And in the end, that's the most you can believe about _any_one these days."

Looking back down towards the tunnel where Harmony's scent was fading away, Oz continued, "Harmony, on the other hand, wasn't even a decent person when she _had_ a soul. If she's managed to fall in with a vengeance demon and is casting spells, there's a good chance she may even have something to do with these ghosts that are popping up. She's not the brightest bulb in the box, but in some ways, that makes her even more dangerous."

"Spike _did_ say that he liked booze and women too much to destroy the world," Robbie remembered.

"And he's smart enough to keep from doing anything that'll kill all the women and the people who work in breweries," Oz replied with a smirk. "But while Harmony's got a few ties to the earth herself, she's bound to do something catastrophic by accident. Greater of two evils, man."

"I'll go with that," Robbie agreed as they continued on their way.

They walked in silence for some time before hearing sounds of a struggle down another tunnel. Raising a hand to Robbie for silence, Oz led him down the passageway as quietly as possible. His sharp hearing managed to pick up Harmony's irritated voice quite easily, but he was surprised by who she was speaking to. "It's Spike," he whispered to Robbie. "I guess he decided to head down here after all."

"Wish he'd make up his mind," Robbie muttered in response as they crept along to the source of the voices. While neither werewolf said anything, both felt that there was something odd about Spike's presence in the sewers. For one thing, Oz wondered how Spike had managed to get so far ahead of them so quickly, unless he had simply abandoned Violet and used his superhuman speed to cut Harmony off. But the more prominent thing that bothered both of them was the quality of Spike's voice. It sounded... different, somehow.

Oz and Robbie broke into a run when they heard Spike scream. Spike? Screaming because of something Harmony had done? Not likely. What was _far_ more likely was the possibility of Harmony's new vengeance demon boyfriend having appeared on the scene and deciding to exact some painful hand-to-hand vengeance.

They both scrambled into the cavern, prepared to act as Spike's back-up against an unknown demon. They were surprised, then, to see that Harmony was alone in the room with a wavering body slumped at her feet.

Looking up and seeing the new arrivals, Harmony rolled her eyes. "Oh great, I _knew_ that was way too easy. Can't you good guys _ever_ stop being nosey? It makes it really, _really_ hard to be a badass when you've got people coming in from everywhere."

"What'd you do to him?" Robbie inquired, shocked by the condition of the person on the floor.

"Who, him?" Harmony asked, pointing to him. "All I did was smack the big baby and he's crying on the floor, begging for mercy." With a kick to his ribs, she smirked and added, "Actually, I don't think I mind this version all too much. It makes me feel... powerful."

"Funny," Oz remarked, getting out his stake, "I feel the same way about my little friend here."

"Speaking of him," Harmony responded, glancing up at Robbie, "it's really rude not to introduce us."

"I'm talking about the _stake_, Harmony," Oz replied. "But hey, if you're anxious for an introduction with it, I've got no qualms against that."

Backing away hastily, Harmony asked, "Where does everyone get these stakes from? Do you guys just, like, ram them up your asses or something in case of an emergency? And besides, how come Spike doesn't get staked while I'm over here being threatened by the guy with the _worst_ taste in girls in the history of ever?" Making a face, she choked out, "Really, Oz, you were in a band and were all cool and stuff. Why'd you ever waste time with Will-"

"That's it," Oz interrupted. "Robbie, get Spike out of here. I'm going to do what we were all too nice to do back in college."

"What? Whoa!" Harmony cried out as Oz came into the room, charging at her. With a duck, she tried to explain, "Wait! Hold on! I didn't mean it! And besides-ow, don't hit me there!-besides, that's not Spike!"

Robbie had crouched by the crumbled form that he had believed was Spike before glancing at his hair. "She's right," he told Oz. "This isn't-" It wasn't until he looked at the man's lost blue eyes and recognized the face that he began second-guessing himself. "Whoa," he uttered, finally looking over the person's clothes. "This... who are you?"

"Not Spike, apparently," he coughed out, slowly pulling himself up. With Robbie's help, he managed to get himself onto his feet. "I seem to have found myself a little worse for wear, and... oh dear! It looks like your friend may be in need of some help."

Robbie whirled around just in time to see Oz receive a solid punch across the face from the blonde vampire. "Oh, that bitch is going down," he growled as he went to Oz's assistance. To the Spike lookalike, he commanded, "Stay here and keep back."

William was about to reprimand Robbie for his harsh language, but he caught sight of something disconcerting. It seemed that the smaller man who had initially come to his rescue was suddenly... hairier. Taking off his glasses and wiping the lenses with the hem of his waistcoat, William tried to convince himself that it wasn't real. He had simply knocked his head and became quite mad. When he put his glasses back on, he saw that, not only did the short redhead definitely take on a more animalistic appearance, but the blonde woman's face had contorted into the monstrous façade he had seen earlier. Not wanting to stick around in case the much larger man involved in the fight decided to change his form, William turned on his heels and sped out.

"Oh crap!" Harmony cried, shoving Robbie clear across the room when she saw William head out. "Damn it, you guys, you _suck_." Avoiding another lunge from Oz, she grabbed hold of the fur that had sprouted around his neck and remarked, "And _you're_ ugly." Glad that his crazy wolf form didn't make him that much heavier, she heaved him towards Robbie and hoped that they'd need a few moments to get back on their feet.

Not wanting to lose William again, she took off without finishing the job.

* * *

"Jebus, what a night to be home alone," Marissa muttered.

With her arms crossed over her chest, she was standing on her front porch and looking out into the inky black neighborhood. She had been through blackouts before, but this was different. There wasn't even moonlight offering to illuminate the streets. As soon as she thought about the moon, she shivered as she remembered what sorts of things were probably out frolicking in this impromptu darkness and turned to head inside.

She froze in her tracks when she heard a blood-curdling scream in the distance. Spinning around, Marissa jumped down the porch steps and gazed down the street. Though she couldn't see anything, she had to stop herself from going off in the direction of the yell. She had no weapons and besides, it was none of her concern. If Xander said that Spike was supposed to be some kind of hero, then _he_ should be able to take care of it, right?

She became less sure of that thought when the screams turned into words. "Oh God, help! Somebody, please, get her away from me!" Marissa didn't know what was worse: the fact that the words were spoken in sheer terror, or the fact that the voice sounded familiar.

When the cry came again, Marissa knew she couldn't waste anymore time. Darting back into her house, she grabbed her purse before racing out into the street. _That voice_, she thought as she put her messenger bag over her shoulders. _Oh God, it can't be...._

It was Spike. While she wasn't exactly too keen on the idea of possibly saving his life, she _had_ to see what it was that would make him cry out like that. From what she had managed to read about William the Bloody, he had been on both the giving and the receiving end of a whole lot of torture. Couple that with the fact that Xander told her Spike was supposed to be some kind of "champion of the world," and she knew she couldn't just sit on her porch and listen to his screams echo in the night.

Breathing hard, she turned a corner onto a dead end street and saw him. Or rather, she saw his legs as he struggled with a girl who was pawing at him. "What the hell is this?" Marissa uttered in spite of herself. When the blonde turned around and revealed a vamp-face, Marissa cringed and remarked, "Oh, okay, this makes a little more sense now."

"Back off," the blonde vampire told her. "I'm cold, I'm hungry, and I'm pretty sure I just broke a nail. You do _not_ want to make me any madder than I am right now."

"Please help," said Spike's voice from behind the vampire. "She's already quite mad."

"Shut up," screamed the blonde. "Jeez, all you do is whine, whine, whine. And then I had to beat up those two werewolves while you hightailed it like a coward."

"Whoa, wait, wolves?" Marissa asked. Knowing of only two werewolves that hung around with Spike, she brought up, "Robbie and Oz? You beat up my ex-boyfriend?!"

Gawking at Marissa, the vampire asked, "Oh, ew. _You_ used to date Oz, too? And I thought he was lowering his standards when he dated _Willow_."

Insulted, Marissa was about to argue, but she caught sight of the man that was being held down. Though it was dark, she could see that he was wearing glasses and didn't have radioactive-colored hair. "That's not Spike." Looking up at the vampire again, she realized, "You're about to hurt a human."

"Duh," came the reply. "It's what I do. Evil vampire, right? Now buzz off, you social reject, before I get _really_ cranky."

"Sorry," Marissa replied, pulling the stake out of her bag. "A cranky vampire's not exactly a human's best friend." Even as she held the weapon poised, she tried not to pale. Not only would this be the first time she used her two days of training with Spike to face down an actual vampire, but a human's life was in danger. And to top it off, it wasn't until she gripped the stake in her hand that she realized it'd be of no use against her enemy. It was the plastic one that she used against Spike.

"Okay, _why_ does everyone in town carry stakes around with them?!" Using the beaten man as a shield, the vampire slowly began backing up. "Was there like some kind of vampire epidemic recently, or have you all been watching _way_ too many movies?" With a gasp, she asked, "You're not a Slayer, are you?"

"I'm _worse_ than a Slayer," Marissa told her as she cautiously approached. "Slayers kill your kind because they're destined to do it, because someone _tells_ them to. Me? I'm just a human being who hates vampires. I've got my own agenda. And it involves seeing you turn to dust before I let your hurt anyone else."

"Oh please," the vampire scoffed. "Like you're really gonna have the balls to come and-" When Marissa lunged for her, her yellow eyes widened as she pulled away. "Holy crap, you're attacking me!"

Tossing William out of the way, Harmony grabbed the human girl's wrist to keep the stake back and punched her in the stomach. "I don't know who you think you are, Little Miss Buffy Wannabe, but you are _so_ gonna pay for getting on my nerves. I wasn't even gonna eat him... much."

With a sharp kick to the vampire's shin, Marissa pulled her hand out of her grasp and jabbed her opponent sharply in the face. "So you've met Buffy, huh? Great. So here I am, cleaning up a mess that she didn't want to take care of before it got out of hand. What, she was _your_ 'friend' too or something?"

"That little bitch messed up my precious blondie bear!" Harmony grunted out, grappling with Marissa. "She turned him all goody-two-shoes and he wouldn't give me another look! If it hadn't been for her, Spike and I would've made it!"

"_You_ were with Spike?!" Marissa groaned. "Now I'm dealing with psycho exes? News flash, missy." Kneeing Harmony hard in her lower abdomen and pushing her away, she proclaimed, "Spike was messed up way before Buffy. Vampires and love, they don't generally mix. But vamps and obsession? Oh yeah, you're a textbook example."

"Please," Harmony jeered. "I'm _so_ over him."

"You brought him up," Marissa said, dodging a lunge. "You don't bring someone up if you're over him." Realizing that she had immediately recognized one of the vampire's werewolf opponents as her ex-boyfriend, Marissa made a frustrated sound and struck at her with the stake.

Harmony screamed as she stared down at the stake protruding from her chest. After a few moments, she realized that she hadn't turned into ashes. "I'm not dead," she gasped, her hands feeling at her chest. "Oh my God, I'm... I'm not dead! I've got a stake sticking out of my chest and I'm... I'm alive. Ow, but alive! _Really_ ow, but... I must be, like, invincible or something!"

While the less-than-intelligent vampire marveled over her newfound immortality, Marissa grabbed hold of the man that she had initially mistaken for Spike and pulled him into a run. "Come on," she told him. "Hurry it up, before her power trip fades away."

They had only been running for two blocks before Marissa had realized that he had fallen behind. Stopping, she turned around and tried to find him in the gloom. When she saw the panting figure leaning against a car, she approached him and whispered, "Hey. Hey guy, come on. We can get to my place, and she can't follow us in there."

"I can't," he wheezed. Putting a hand on his back, she could feel his trembling heaves of breath. The man was clearly frightened out of his wits. "Please, I... I can't anymore. Carry on without me; I'll keep her away from you."

"It's _you_ she's after," Marissa argued. "And I'm not exactly jumping at the idea of you keeping her from me by feeding her your blood." Gently pulling at his arm, she laced it around her shoulders and attempted to prop him up. "Come on. I only live on the next block. We'll get you over there and you can rest on the sofa."

It took a little pulling and prodding, but he eventually acquiesced to her leading him away, though he tried not to lean too heavily on her. Marissa suspected that he just didn't want the rest of his pride to be completely broken down. "Thank you," he told her. "I apologize for my rudeness, but I simply must ask: you're not going to change shape in front of me too, are you?"

With a small laugh, Marissa replied, "No need to worry about that. If you're talking vamp or werewolf, I'm very much _not_ one of them. Just your average human girl, trying to cope with living in a world filled with monsters."

"Oh, thank God," he sighed. "I'm not quite sure how much more of these ghastly surprises I can take. One minute, I'm wandering the streets after a most depressing evening, and the next, I'm being poked at by a woman with some sort of demon living under her face and sneered at by a small troll with boils all over his skin. Just when I think I'm safe, she catches up to me and I get rescued by a man who seems to be turning into an animal and his accomplice who may or may not transform in the same way."

"Sounds more eventful than most of my evenings," Marissa remarked. "If you're talking about the woman we just fought, that's a vampire. Apparently, their faces go all lumpy and scary when they're about to feed. I don't know who the troll would be, but the other two were probably Robbie and Oz. They're a couple of werewolves. Well, not a _couple_, because they don't swing that way. At least, Robbie doesn't; I don't really know about Oz. Not that there's anything _wrong_ with them deciding to.... I'm Marissa."

As though he needed a moment to follow Marissa's train of thought, he hesitated before responding, "My name is William. It's a pleasure to meet you, Marissa, albeit under rather... unorthodox circumstances."

"Not too unorthodox where I come from," Marissa responded. "If you think this is bad, you clearly don't know what really happened to the town of Sunnydale, USA."

"I don't believe I've ever heard of it," William replied. "And USA... then I was right in my assumption that I've somehow found my way into the States?"

"Oh, um... you're not from around here, then?" Marissa asked. "I mean, I know you're not from around here because of the way you talk, but you're actually not from _around_ here. So... I'm guessing you got yourself mixed up in some magic or something?"

"An hour ago, I would have told you that such talk was nothing but balderdash," he answered. "But after seeing the things I've seen, I don't believe I'll ever again define magic as merely swindles and chicanery."

"Balderdash?" Marissa asked. "Chicanery?" Under her breath, she muttered, "With a vocabulary like that, I can't believe I mistook you for Spike."

"Who _is_ this Spike fellow?" William queried. "It seems that everyone I've met has taken me for him. There must be some sort of resemblance."

"Your voices sound the same," Marissa informed him, leading him up her driveway. "Now that I think about it, though, it might just be that you're both English. It doesn't even sound like the same part of England. He's a lot more harsh and grr and, well... snarky. Snarky's a good word for Spike. Careful, there are steps coming up."

As they ascended the porch steps, a light came on from behind them. Turning around, Marissa saw that the streetlights have come on. "Huh, looks like they got the public wiring fixed." Looking up, she saw her porch light was still dim and added, "I'll probably have to go play with the breakers to get the house lights on, though."

"Remarkable," William marveled. "I've never seen automated lights quite like that."

"Really?" Marissa asked. Looking at the man she was propping up, she began, "I didn't think England was stuck in a time wa-" Widening her eyes, she cut herself off as she pulled away from the man that had introduced himself as William. "You! What are you trying to pull?"

"Pardon me?" William asked, shocked.

"Oh, right," Marissa sneered. "First, you're some proper Englishman who happens to _sound_ a lot like a prim version of Spike, and now you just happen to _look_ like him? Get real, Spike, how stupid do you think I am?"

"I don't make any assumptions about your intellect," William hurriedly said as the girl turned away and opened her door. "I've told you, apparently I have some sort of double here, and I suspect that _he's_ the reason I've been assaulted."

"Oh, I'm _so_ killing you," came a familiar female voice from the street.

Marissa and William turned to see Harmony storming up the walkway. "Go ahead and hide in the house, you human-stealing skank. It doesn't matter. _I'm_ invincible! If a stake won't take me down, then that means that I don't even have to worry about not getting an invite."

"Inside!" William told Marissa, pushing her into the house. "Hurry!" Marissa suddenly found herself stumbling into her house, William following after her and slamming the door shut. His hands fumbled for the lock before he felt the wood tremble under his hands. Retreating towards Marissa, he asked, "Is there anything we can do to brace it?"

"You came in," Marissa realized. "How'd you come in?"

She didn't get an answer, as her front door suddenly came crashing down. Harmony stared down at the two of them, still drunk on the power of her own "invincibility." Not wholly aware of what she was doing, Marissa found herself clinging to William, despite knowing that they were safe.

"That's right," Harmony proclaimed. "Go ahead and tremble and be all scared and stuff. Because _this_ little vamp doesn't play by the rules anymore. I defy all logic. I-... I... I can't come in." Looking around at the empty space where the door had been, Harmony tried to push her way into the house. "Hey! Hey, what gives? I can be invincible but I can't just waltz in?"

Getting a hold of herself, Marissa edged away from William and said, "You're not invincible, you moron! That was a plastic stake that I use for training. You're about as good as _practice_. So why don't you turn around and get off my property before we find out if you're invincible against holy water?"

"Plastic? Oh, that's _so_ cheating!" Harmony argued. "You don't have to be all... self-righteous about it. Ugh, getting my hopes up and then-wait, I need the dork. Send him out."

Marissa glanced back at William. Though she couldn't see him very well in the darkness of the house, she realized that there was something very, very singular about him. It was Spike. She knew it was. There was no way someone could look and sound _that_ much like a person without being a twin, and she figured she'd probably have heard something about Spike having a twin brother that was also a vampire. And the female vampire had referenced Spike earlier as though he hadn't been there, so there was clearly more to this than met the eye. Looking back at her, Marissa answered, "No."

"Aw, come on. Please?"

"No."

"Pretty please with sugar on top?"

"As effective as your pleas might be, I'm going to have to go with no," Marissa told her, picking up her door. It was heavy and awkward, but she managed to keep that effort out of her voice as she added, "You broke my door. Get out of here before I hack out a pointy section and charge at you with it."

No longer dependent on her invincibility, Harmony slowly retreated. Chancing another glance at William, she growled, "This isn't over." To Marissa, she repeated, "You hear me? This isn't over! I'm gonna get my boyfriend!"

"Oh, be still, my feminist heart," Marissa replied dryly. As the vampire turned and sped off, Marissa shook her head. "I knew vampires weren't playing with a full deck, but that's just ten shades of special." She began setting the door back in place, hoping to be able to get the lights on and not find any cracks in the wood so she could set about repairing the hinges. "Mom is going to _kill_ me if I don't get this fixed."

She was surprised when a good deal of the weight lifted. Looking up, she saw that William was adjusting the door in its frame. "I apologize for the inconvenience," he told her quietly. "If there's any way to send for a handyman, I will gladly pay the costs for any repairs."

Holding the door in place, Marissa leaned against the frame and looked up at William. All she could see of him was what the streetlights showed through the windows, which wasn't much. Though the tone of his voice was all wrong, the face was the same. "You say your name is William?"

"Yes."

"What year is it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The year," Marissa told him. "What do you think the year is?"

"Why, it's 1880, isn't it?" Seeing the crestfallen look on her face, William gathered that he had guessed wrong. "Did I have an accident? I know I've seen many strange things, so perhaps I've hit my head and have fallen unconscious for some time. That's not a very encouraging thought, perhaps, but-"

"You're William the Bloody," Marissa whispered. "Good God, you're... you're William the Bloody. Before he becomes bloody. You're Spike _before_ he became a vampire. _That's _why you were able to come in without having been invited."

"I'm not sure I..." William began. "Wait... this Spike. He's... a vampire? Like that wretched woman out there? Is _that_ why everyone seems to be having adverse reactions to me?"

"Just... just keep quiet," Marissa told him. "Hold on, I need to think." Running a hand through her hair, she tried her best to reason out her next course of action. "First, lights. We need lights. You stay here and hold the door up. I'm going to go downstairs and mess with the breakers, then grab some tools and see if I can get this door standing on its own."

William watched her as she moved in the darkness. Though he had heard a good number of confusing things during his time in this strange place, the idea of her getting tools was by far the strangest. "Shouldn't you allow a man to do that for you?"

"You are in for one _hell_ of a lecture about women's lib when I get back upstairs."

* * *

"Ugh, this is all bloody pointless!"

Violet watched as Spike pushed the large tome away from him and stood up. "No," she told the pacing vampire. "This is research. If you don't like the idea of flipping through hundreds of pages in romantic candlelight, maybe you shouldn't have made this date."

Slamming his hands on the table, he leaned in towards her. Violet flinched at the intensity in his aura as he nearly yelled, "You're a bleeding _Sidhe_! I thought you'd be able to sense trace magical residue and we'd get this bit over and done with in a matter of minutes."

"My mother's people were Sidhe," Violet told him levelly, trying to imbue her words with as much patience as she could muster. "I might've inherited some of their flaws and their magical sensitivity, but that doesn't mean I can be your little fairy godmother and wave a magic wand to get things done. There are some things that come naturally to me, like glamour tricks, enchantment, aura reading-the basic stuff. But the rest depends on how much I'm willing to learn about the ways of my ancestors. Quite frankly, all I know is that their weak constitution means I'm probably going to die before the age of forty, and that's all I care to know."

"Excuse me while I play you a song on the world's smallest violin," Spike remarked, continuing with his pacing. After a moment of restless movement, he shook his head and proclaimed, "I don't know how the sodding Scoobies did it before Red mastered her powers. Sitting in libraries for hours on end, hoping to find a picture or a word that jumps out at them before the world ends. And they always managed to get lucky. Why can't I get lucky once in a while?"

"Because you're still stuck in your Billy Idol phase?" Violet offered as she turned back to her book.

"None of your lip!" Spike warned, pointing a finger at her. "I mean, is it really too much to ask? I'm the last remaining vampire with a soul; if all goes according to plan, I've got a major prophecy to fulfill. Is there really enough time for me to run about, cleaning up after my idiot ex?"

Just then, the lights in Violet's apartment came on, momentarily blinding the vampire. Glancing up from her reading, Violet remarked, "Oh look. The Powers That Do Nothing actually did something. Fancy that, you got cut some slack."

"A shame the same can't be said for my optic nerves," Spike muttered, rubbing his eyes. Heading towards the window, he glanced out and saw that streetlamps were turning on all throughout the block. "So now we're looking for a spell that not only knocks out the electricity and is linked to the ghosties, but one that brings the lights back on after, what, forty-five minutes?"

"Either that," Violet said, turning a page, "or Robbie and Oz killed your ex and broke the spell."

"Really?" Spike asked, casting Violet a hopeful glance. "You think they managed to kill her? You're not just humoring me?"

"Wow," Violet commented, "I've seen bad break-ups, but I think you're the first guy whom I actually _believed_ wants to see his ex dead. Or, well, dusted, since she's technically already dead. You're not the one who turned her, are you? Because that would make you look even worse than the whole formerly-evil thing."

"Please," Spike scoffed. "I don't go around making vampires willy-nilly. Never have. Except for that time when the First brainwashed me into making about a dozen or so and setting them against the Slayer." After a pause, he realized, "I'm sure that's not helping my case any."

"Not in the slightest," Violet remarked, still skimming through her book. "But hey, I hear that once you hit rock bottom, you can't get worse than that. You've still got a couple more marks before you get there, I think."

Ignoring her comment, Spike crossed his arms over his chest and sat down on the windowsill, gazing out into the street. Like Oz, he recognized that Harmony's idiocy could end up destroying them all. She could probably ignite an apocalypse just by misusing a toaster oven. If he had known that Violet would prove to be so unhelpful in finding out the spell Harmony conducted, he would have gone after the dumb cow on his own and indulged his bloodthirsty side until she talked about something relevant.

"Oh!" Violet exclaimed, putting her book on the table and pointing to a passage. "Here!"

"You found something useful?" Spike asked, moving towards her.

"Yeah, I think so."

"And my opinion of you has just risen considerably. What have you got?"

Spike looked over her shoulder as she re-read the segment to herself. It looked like the handwritten words were written in Gaelic or some other language with lots of apostrophes and unnecessarily long words. It took her a moment, but Violet eventually managed to fully decipher the paragraph that had gotten her perked up.

"Okay, this is an old journal that my great-great-uncle used to keep," she explained, furrowing her brow as she stumbled through the translation in her head. "He used to record strange happenings and see if he could link them back to our people as favorable signs or ominous portents or something. It says here that he was at a gathering in London with a client of his when the lights all flared up and then died out in unison. It only lasted for a minute, but the strange thing is that he felt something that he called a... a jolt, or a tremor is the closest I can come. Then the lights came on by themselves." Looking up at Spike, she mentioned, "The really weird thing is that I'm pretty sure this happened before electric lights were introduced into most homes, and gas lights don't just flicker on by themselves."

"Incandescent lights have been around for a while," Spike informed her. "Is there a specific date?"

Flipping back to the beginning of the entry, Violet replied, "March 22nd, 1880." Violet continued to search the passage in anticipation of further questioning from Spike, but the vampire said nothing else. Turning around to face him, she saw that he had a rather disconcerting expression on his face. "Spike? What? What is it?"

In a low murmur, Spike responded, "That's the day I died."

* * *

"I must say, this is quite extraordinary," William remarked.

Drilling in the last screw on the door, Marissa smirked at him. "What is? The power tools, or the fact that there's a woman working them while you hold the door steady? Speaking of, you can let go of it now. I think it's good."

William gingerly released his hold on the door, watching as Marissa experimentally opened and closed it. "Both, actually. Well, that _and_ the fact that you seem to be under the impression that I've found myself in a future world in which I still exist as a vampire."

"You've got a better explanation?" Marissa asked as she locked the door.

"Delirium," William answered simply. "Not that it's _better_, but it's far more conceivable."

"It's probably better that you think you're delirious anyway," Marissa told him, moving into the living room and setting the drill on the coffee table. "I don't really keep up with the latest theories in physics or anything, but I'll bet that knowing ahead of time that you're destined to become a vampire is going to affect how likely you are to walk down dark alleyways from now on. Ooh, with any luck, your existence here might just cause such a huge temporal paradox that Spike will never exist! That'll make avoiding him _so_ much easier."

"Temporal...?" Adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, William clasped his hands behind his back and stated, "Yes, well, I'm surely going to be more careful when I venture out at night. If I ever find my way back, that is."

With her hands on her back as she stretched, Marissa looked William over in silence. Now that she had managed to get the lights back on, she found that William and Spike looked less alike than she had initially imagined in the dimness. Still, just because William still had his natural hair color, a tan, a soft voice, and a kind face whereas Spike... _didn't_, it didn't mean that the similarities were lost on her. Just when she found herself looking back into his blue eyes, she saw with some embarrassment that he was offering her the same sort of scrutiny. Looking down at herself, Marissa realized that he probably wasn't used to seeing girls wearing sweatpants and tank tops, their hair tied back into sloppy ponytails.

Clearing her throat as she self-consciously tried to fix herself up, she asked, "Would you like something to drink? Some water? Or, uh, tea? I think I have those little Arizona tea bags that... you've... probably never heard of."

Offering her a weak but grateful smile, William politely replied, "Tea would be lovely, thank you." As Marissa returned his smile and went off towards what he assumed was the kitchen, he looked around. The house was filled with many strange devices but, if he was indeed in the future, he was glad to see that this place was still recognizable as living quarters. The lights were quite bright, and a few interesting yet tasteful decorations hung on the walls, leaving William to believe that this girl was among the upper class. Still, upper class or not, she _was_ just a girl, so there was sure to be a chaperone about. "If I may ask, do you live here on your own?"

"No," Marissa called. "I live with my mom. Or, uh, my mum, I guess. That's what you call them, right?" Emerging from the kitchen, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the doorframe. "She works nights, though, so I don't see that much of her."

"Works nights?" William asked, surprised. With a slight blush rising to his cheeks, he said, "I, er, I see. If I... that is, if it's not too bold of me to ask, what, ah... what sort of profession is she... is she involved with?"

Marissa widened her eyes as she realized what sorts of "professions" were available to women during the nighttime hours back in William's time. "Oh, no! No, she's not a... I mean, not that I'm assuming that _you're_ assuming anything, it's just... no. No, my mother works at an airport, at the baggage terminal."

"Airport?"

"Oh, they didn't have those back then, did they?" Marissa realized. "Uh... airplanes. Big flying machines, take people around the world. You can go from California all the way to England in less than half a day, from what I've heard. I can't afford to take a trip like that, but I _did_ go to Vegas with my high school class. Pretty cool, even if it _was_ kind of stupid taking a bunch of teenagers to Sin City." After a moment, she asked, "This isn't making any sense to you, is it?"

"No," William remarked. "Yet I find it absolutely... intriguing."

"You do?"

"Flying machines taking children to a place called Sin City?" William marveled with a grin. "Clearly, this is a sign that my imagination is finally being put to work. If I ever regain consciousness, I hope I remember all of this well enough to write it down."

With a small laugh, Marissa commented, "Another J.M. Barrie, huh?"

"I don't believe I know the fellow."

"The guy who wrote _Peter Pan_."

"Is that a poem or...?"

"What?" Marissa asked, nearly aghast. "You've never heard of _Peter Pan_?! It's... it's legendary! How do you not... hold on." Walking into the living room, she approached a bookshelf and skimmed through it. Fascinated by the small shelf containing literature from "the future," William found himself drawn to it.

Plucking out her paperback copy of _Peter Pan_, Marissa glanced over the summary in the back. "Oh, it was published in 1911. You've got another thirty years to-" She turned around, then jumped when she saw that William was standing right behind her. "Jesus! And I thought it was a vampire habit!"

"I apologize!" William blurted out, taking a large step back. "I should have respected your boundaries. I forgot my manners."

Unused to hearing Spike's voice being so contrite, Marissa knitted her brow and stumbled on her words for a moment. Finally she said, "No... no, it's nothing like that. It's just...." She paused again before handing him the book. "It's one of my favorites," she told him as he took it and looked it over. "My dad used to read it to me before bed. At least, I _think_ it was my dad." Seeing him look up at her, she looked down and wrapped her arms around herself. "I don't really know who my dad is. There'd be a bunch of guys that came around that I was told to call 'Dad,' but I don't know if I ever actually met him. But the guy who read that to me, I think that was him. He was the one guy my mom never allowed to stay the night."

Not wanting to talk about her mother's past discrepancies, Marissa put on a smile and told William, "Hey, if you promise not to plagiarize anything when you get back to your time, I'll let you read it while I make us some mac 'n cheese. You... probably don't know what mac 'n cheese is, so I'll just go into the kitchen and prepare some surprising cheesy goodness for the both of us."

William watched as the young girl turned and walked back towards the kitchen. He knew what it was like to grow up without a father, but that was because his had died when he was only four years old; his mother had never remarried. He couldn't imagine what it was like not even knowing the true face of his father, never mind having a row of imposters trying their hand at raising him before disappearing. That was what he gathered had happened, anyway, considering that Marissa hadn't mentioned a current father figure living with her. With a deep breath, he looked down at the book and sighed, "O brave new world, that has such people in it."

Stopping, Marissa glanced back at him. "That's from _The Tempest_, isn't it?"

Pleasantly surprised by the acknowledgement, William replied, "Yes, yes it is."

Turning to face him, she looked absolutely bemused as she asked, "You know Shakespeare?"

Not knowing how he should view the confusion with which she said those words, William answered, "My dear young lady, I happen to be well-versed in most of Shakespeare's works, and the works of his contemporaries. It's always wise for a poet to know to whom he must pay homage."

"Poet?" Marissa queried, completely shocked. "You're a poet?" When William affirmed that he was, Marissa was taken aback. "William the Bloody, the scourge of Europe, started out as a mild-mannered _poet_? Wow, _someone_ was a repressed ball of rage for most of his life."

"Now see here," William started, slightly offended. "You're speaking of crimes which I've yet to commit; crimes which I can't even _fathom_ committing. If I do indeed find myself attacked by some creature of the night, chances are that the person I am right now will no longer exist. I doubt that young woman who attacked us acted in such a way when she was still a human being. A vampire is a loathsome, soulless, amoral beast, a fiend of pure evil. Surely, the actions that I'll commit under the mantle of this Spike persona bear no reflection on the person standing before you right now. All I am is a good, decent man, striving to live a life that would make his mum proud."

Marissa was rendered speechless by his sudden passionate speech. While she had never heard Spike speak ill of vampires as a whole, she realized that she had heard certain bits of this lecture before. A man. Just a man. A man who thought that his vampire self would be perpetually soulless and unaccountable for his actions, not knowing that his human soul would one day be returned. Hearing the whistle of the tea kettle, Marissa told him, "You know, I think you and Spike have more in common than either of us would like to believe."

Judging by the contemplative tone of her voice, William was unsure of how to take that.

* * *

"I know this neighborhood," Oz breathed.

Panting as he looked around for Harmony, Robbie responded, "Yeah, this is close to where Marissa lives. Are you sure you tracked Harmony's scent down this way? Because man, if Marissa gets involved in this-"

"She won't," Oz told him sternly. "We'll find Harmony, and we'll find that hostage that she had taken with her, and Marissa won't have to get in the way. Hey, isn't that Marissa's place over there?" Looking to where Oz was pointing, Robbie nodded. "Oh," Oz murmured. "Never mind, then."

"What?!" Robbie asked, horrified. "Don't tell me the vampire's in there! There's no way. If Marissa knows that vamps need an invite to get into a person's house, she's not going to let someone she's never met come in after dark."

"Maybe her mother invited her in?" Oz brought up.

"No," Robbie protested. "Her mom works nights. Even when she _is_ at home, she usually doesn't leave her room. Maybe Harmony's met Marissa before, made her think she was human. Because, you know, she figured that she might need a human friend so she'd have some place to hide out in case she was being chased or even-God-even as an emergency snack."

Shaking his head, Oz remarked, "That'd require Harmony to have a shred of foresight. Come on; there are lights on inside. Let's play some spy games and see what we can find out." Breaking out into a sprint, the two of them followed Harmony's scent up Marissa's drive.

Careful not to be seen when he spied movement in the living room, Robbie crept towards the window and looked inside. "That's him!" Robbie exclaimed in a loud whisper.

"Who?" Oz asked, moving to look.

"The guy," Robbie replied. "The guy we thought was Spike. What the hell is going on here?"

When Oz followed Robbie's gaze, he saw the man in question sitting just a few feet away from them. He was calmly seated in Marissa's living room, reading something that appeared to be of great interest to him. In the light, Oz could definitely see something familiar about his face. He not only sounded like Spike, but bore a strong physical resemblance to the brash vampire.

"Maybe it's a spell book," Robbie realized. "Maybe he's like some evil Spike clone and Harmony was going to use him for some evil purposes. And, and maybe when he touched me, he could see Marissa and... and now he's looking for an evil spell so he can brainwash her and-"

"I'm getting forgetful in my old age," Oz told him, "but I don't recall _Peter Pan_ having much to do with magic." Robbie glanced at him, and Oz pointed towards the book. "That's what he's reading. It doesn't seem like a particularly malevolent piece of literature."

"Fairies!" Robbie exclaimed. "Tinkerbell's a fairy, and maybe he's plotting something against Violet-"

"You are a _very_ nervous young man, aren't you?" Oz asked. Shaking his head, he observed the Spike lookalike and mentioned, "I can see a shadow behind him, so it looks like Marissa's in the next room." Seeing movement from the man inside, he narrowed his eyes and kept a quiet watch. "It looks like he's talking to someone. I think-duck!"

The both of them dipped out of sight as Marissa entered the room. Robbie was astonished to see what she was offering the stranger. "Her Donald Duck mug! No way, she's letting him drink from the Donald Duck mug?!" Gaping at Oz, he explained, "_I'm_ the Donald Duck mug guy! She's letting _that_ jerk drink from my mug? That _has_ to prove she's been brainwashed!"

"Or it proves that she doesn't see him as a threat," Oz remarked. "Neither did you, until you saw him sitting in her living room." Though he was amused by seeing the larger man nearly pouting in his petulance, he tried to stay on-track. "If we thought he was Spike and came to his rescue, maybe she did the same."

"Marissa? Rescue Spike?" Robbie nearly laughed. "The only one of us 'monsters' that she has any actual reason to hate are the vampires. Personal vendetta and all of that."

"But when we heard Mr. Looks Like Spike scream, we thought there was something really wrong," Oz brought up. "Maybe he screamed again and Marissa thought we were _all_ in trouble? Or that something had gone wrong with the ghosts? Would she just be able to turn away if she thought innocent people might be getting hurt?"

Backing away from the window, he continued, "Whatever the case, Harmony was definitely here. And since he's in there, I think it's safe to assume that she's chasing after him for some reason. The fact that he looks and sounds just like Spike is probably connected to this spell she was talking about. You head back to Violet's, see if the two of them have figured out what's going on. I'll stay here and make sure Harmony doesn't come back."

As Robbie nodded and ran off, Oz turned his attention back to the window.

* * *

"You're saying this tea comes from Arizona?" William choked out.

"Um, maybe?" Marissa brought up, noting his distaste. "I mean, that's the name of the company that makes it, but I don't know if that's where it's from. Does it, um... need more sugar or something? I think there's a beer in the fridge, if you don't mind Coors Light."

"I'm not much for alcohol, thank you."

He looked up at Marissa as she suddenly giggled wildly. "Sorry," she apologized, covering her mouth. "I mean, the poet thing is a bit hard to swallow on its own, but not liking beer? Man, you've changed a bit in the past hundred years."

"Have I?" William asked. "Or, I suppose the better question would be, has he?" Looking down, he thoughtfully remarked, "This Spike that you know, it can't be me, can it? You claim that I'm still alive, but it's only a demon using my body. My soul's been laid to rest long ago."

Unsure of how to respond, Marissa slowly sat down besides him. If she told him about his soul, would he still make the effort to get it back all those years later? Was this even the same person? After all, because of William's presence here, shouldn't their current Spike's memories be altered, if he's not fading away altogether? But if that's not happening, then nothing she told this William mattered at all, since he was probably from some alternate dimension or something.

At length, she quietly said, "I won't go into detail but... basically, I hate vampires. I hate werewolves. I hate faeries, trolls, gremlins, banshees, and anything that isn't quite human." Taking a deep breath, she admitted, "But I don't hate Spike."

Surprised, William asked, "Why not?"

"I don't know, really," Marissa replied. "He... he's imperfect. He makes mistakes. He does bad things. But he never hides that. He is who he is, and he calls it like he sees it. It's hard to hate someone who's just that comfortable with what he is, especially when he's never actively tried to hurt me."

"He's comfortable?" William queried, as though it were an inside joke. "Well, that certainly isn't me." Seeing Marissa's quizzical glance, he looked towards his tea as he grimly explained, "It's quite difficult being the only creative mind in a world that focuses only upon one's social standing and financial worth. Being comfortable within my own skin is a foreign concept."

Marissa noted the redness that rose to his face as his words came out sounding a bit strangled. A bitter, misunderstood poet. Well, _that_ would certainly explain why William became William the Bloody. She wondered now if he had actually _wanted_ to be turned into a vampire when presented with the option, if he had considered it an escape. "It's stifling," she realized lowly.

William turned his gaze back to look at her. "Yes," he whispered fervently. "To have this... this passion. To have this fire burning in my soul, only to have it put out with every rejection, with every scorning laugh. And still, my heart doesn't learn. An ember remains, and it catches to something, and the fire begins all over again." Breathing hard, he shook his head as he concluded, "It's a vicious cycle." Raising the mug to his lips, he murmured, "At least vampirism will finally put out the inferno and grant me repose."

"No," she blurted out before she could stop herself. Lowering the mug, William gawked at Marissa as she vehemently shook her head. "Being a vampire doesn't work that way. It's still... it's still _you_. Just a you without a soul. And that's what makes it worse." Remembering Spike's various speeches to her about the return of his soul, she lowered her voice as she continued, "You know what you're doing, and you just don't care. And I guess the not-caring is part of what makes it feel so good, but... but once you become _you_ again, once your soul.... It'll all come back. It'll crash, and it'll hurt, and it's probably better if you don't let your soul take that vacation to begin with."

After a moment, William realized, "And then your Spike will never exist."

"Maybe," Marissa agreed. "But _you_ will. And you can write poems for the rest of your mortal life."

"Oh, I don't think that would be anything but a blight upon mankind," William laughed. "I'm not a very good poet, it seems. My words don't quite manage to capture the glory of the things they mean to revere. Speaking of that, what's your opinion on the word effulgent?"

Surprised by the random question, Marissa blinked and replied, "Um... I don't even know what that means."

"It's another word for gleaming," William informed her.

"Why not just use gleaming?"

"Trouble is, nothing rhymes with it."

"Seeming," Marissa offered. "Teeming?"

"Teeming," William uttered contemplatively, putting his mug on the coffee table. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out several sheets of paper and shuffled through them. He stopped at one and read through it, silently mouthing the words to himself. "Yes, teeming. I think that can work quite well."

"You carry your poetry around with you?" Marissa asked, interested. "Can I see?"

"Oh," William responded, flushing at the idea of someone genuinely wanting to read his work. "Well, you see...."

William didn't get to finish his statement, as the front door suddenly burst open. Marissa jumped to her feet, crying out when she recognized the thing that had catapulted through her door as Oz's half-transformed beast. When William realized what it was, he let out a shout and cringed back against the sofa.

Oz quickly rose into a crouch, his back to Marissa and William. Glancing at Marissa over his shoulder, he told her, "Run. Get out through the back." Marissa looked past him, out into her front yard. She saw a small figure clad in black ascending the porch steps, but she didn't question his aptitude when she saw his hideous face. This was a demon, and the familiar blonde vampire next to him was clearly strong enough to have tossed Oz straight through her door.

"Troll!" William called out, pointing towards the demon. "It's the troll and his woman!"

"It's okay," Marissa said. "The vamp can't come in."

"Rahddy-kins," the vampire said sweetly. "I wish I can walk right into this house and give that fat-assed tramp her stupid little plastic stake back."

With a smirk, the small demon replied, "Wish granted."

"Run!" Oz screamed.

Seeing the blonde vampire storm into the house, Marissa shrieked and grabbed William. "Come on," she told him, pulling him towards the backdoor in the kitchen. He yelled as the vampire lunged at him only to be stopped by the wolf-thing. Without another word, he followed Marissa out.

Punching Harmony as hard as he could, Oz grunted out, "What are you planning, Harmony?" Hitting her again, he asked, "Who was that guy? Why does he look so much like Spike?" Though she managed to block his next jab, she couldn't prevent him from butting his head soundly against hers.

Staggering backwards, she whined, "Ow! How do you expect me to answer you if you just keep hitting me?" Looking back at Sadrahd, she requested, "A little help here, Rahd."

Stepping into the house, Sadrahd glared at Oz and waved his hand sharply, sending Oz flying back. The werewolf crashed against a wall and fell to his knees, looking up just in time to see the vengeance demon keep Harmony from kicking him in the ribs. "W-we're not here for that, y-you idiot." Sneering down at Oz, he elaborated, "We need their help."

"What?!" Harmony cried out. "Did you go all softie on me, too? What is it with you evil guys not staying evil?"

With another wave of his hand, Harmony suddenly found herself flung across the room, though she landed much more gently than Oz had. Squatting down in front of Oz, Sadrahd said, "Now listen to me very, v-_very_ carefully. I c-c-can fix this, but we need to hurry. If Spike encounters his p-past self, something t-terrible will happen."

When Oz asked what would happen, Harmony remarked, "Does the phrase, 'it's the end of the world as we know it,' mean anything to you?"

* * *

"You've been about as useful as something not very useful at all," Spike groaned.

Buried in yellowed parchments that had fallen out of her family's collected journals, Violet put down the papers she was working on translating and snapped, "Hey, I'm doing the best I can, okay? The Sidhe don't exactly care much about the life of _one_ vampire. So the lights went out while one of them was being made back in the nineteenth century, big deal."

"It _is_ a big deal," Spike told her sharply, getting in her face. "That's not exactly a usual occurrence while someone's getting himself sired, so it has to signify something. And since I also happen to be the only ensouled vampire walking about, I'm guessing that there _has_ to be some sort of prophecy about tonight _some_where." Running a hand through his hair, he mentioned, "You say your kin knew about the Powers That Be. If I'm one of their current champions, shouldn't there be some reference-"

"Look," Violet told him, finally losing her patience. Rising to her feet, she told him, "I've been reading through tons of old books written in a language that I rarely ever speak. _You've_ been glaring out the window and being all moody in the corner. You've been around long enough to pick up different languages." Nearly shoving a book into his stomach, she said between gritted teeth, "Start learning."

"You don't learn Gaelic overnight!"

"Impress me."

Waving the book threateningly, Spike told her, "Oh, there's something I'd like to impress on you, all right." Hearing a flurry of knocks on the door, Spike lowered the book as Violet went to answer it. "If that's not good news, I'm going to-"

"Oh, you're going to what?" Violet asked. "Empty-threat me to death?"

When she opened the door, she was surprised to see Robbie burst in. He spared her a quick glance before turning his attention to Spike. "Oh good, you're here," he remarked, breathing hard after having run all the way to the apartment. "That takes care of the 'Spike-is-brainwashed' theory."

"Of the what?" Spike queried, tossing the book on the table.

"Robbie, what happened?" Violet inquired, closing the door and putting a hand on her friend's shoulder.

Robbie took a quick moment to catch his breath, then stated, "Marissa."

"Oh please," Spike scoffed. "Must _everything_ come back to the pup? We're dealing with something serious here, so get yourself a cold shower and-"

"We tracked Harmony to her place," Robbie interrupted. "When we looked inside, we saw a guy sitting in her living room. This guy looked exactly like you."

"Like him?" Violet asked.

"Well, not _exactly_," Robbie amended. "His hair was brown and long-ish, and he was wearing glasses. And the body language was all wrong. But I saw him up close when we cornered Harmony, and besides the hair and the weird clothes and the different accent, it was Spike's double."

"Uh-huh," Violet remarked. "Robbie, has anyone told you that you're quite skilled at jumping to conclusions?"

"I'll deal with this," Spike said, suddenly solemn.

As the vampire walked past the two of them to leave the apartment, Violet whirled around to look at him. "What? Spike, that's nuts. What does-"

"If there's some bloke walking about that looks like me," Spike told her, "even if it's not a very good imitation, it could be bad news. Harmony said she messed up a spell, so maybe she tried to create her very own bloody blondie bear and screwed it up somehow. If she's looking for him, then _I've_ got to find him first and figure out why she wants him around." Before either Violet or Robbie could argue, Spike was gone.

After a moment, Violet looked confusedly over at Robbie. "Blondie bear?" Robbie shrugged his shoulders and shook his head just as Violet's telephone rang. "With a pet name like that," she said as she walked towards the phone, "no wonder he wants her dead." As Robbie crashed into a chair, Violet answered the phone. "Hello?"

Robbie sat up when Violet asked, "Oz?" It didn't help Robbie's worry when she continued, "Whoa, wait, slow down. ... No, Spike just left. He's looking for his evil twin, apparently. ...What? ... time displacement? Are you kidding me?! ... I've never done that before. It's tricky, but I could give it a try, if I can connect with him and we pool our resources. ... okay, yeah, I'll work on it; tell him to do the same. Find Marissa before Spike does."

When she hung up the phone, Robbie was on his feet and approaching her warily. "What is it?" Robbie asked. "What happened?"

She pushed past him and moved towards a trunk that she kept in a corner of the room. "That guy that you saw didn't just look like Spike; it _was_ Spike. Spike circa 1880." Opening the trunk, she began fishing through it as she explained, "A powerful incantation was spoken incorrectly, so a time portal ripped through the dimensional walls and brought him here. It's unclear if he's from the past or from another dimension altogether, but if the first part's the case, we need to send him back before Spike sees him." Realizing something, she looked back to the books on the table and uttered, "Judging from the history texts back there, I think it's safe to say that we're on a tight schedule."

Making room for Violet to move as she quickly knelt in the middle of the room and spread out an armful of jars and candles, Robbie tried to get a handle on the situation. "Okay, whoa... if that's Spike from back then, why can't Spike from now see him?"

Quickly sifting through her materials, Violet explained, "It's like a... like a pop. The exact same individual can't exist in the same place twice. Different versions of him can, like dimension-hoppers and whatnot, but our past selves and present selves were never meant to converge. It'll break down the walls of reality, maybe even cause an early, unintentional apocalypse."

"But... but what about fate?" Robbie asked. "I mean, if past Spike and present Spike are the same Spike, then shouldn't present Spike have the same memories as past Spike? Doesn't this mean that this whole thing already happened in his head? And if that's the case, and present Spike doesn't remember past Spike sparking an apocalypse, then we know that present Spike and past Spike _aren't_ going to end up meeting because fate-"

"Robbie, I love you, but if you don't shut up, I'm ripping your tongue out," Violet snapped. When Robbie finally shut his mouth and Violet's headache subsided just a little, she clarified, "We can't trust fate to do anything for us, even if things are 'fated' to happen. They only happen if we do our parts, and since there are an infinite number of parallel universes where one small change alters that entire universe's landscape, I'd like to be in one of the universes that _doesn't_ go boom because of a little temporal imbalance. So keep quiet while I try to connect with this demon Oz told me about."

"Connect with a demon?" Robbie queried.

"Harmony and this vengeance demon guy," Violet told him, pouring out a circle of red sand around her. "They might be bad guys, but they don't want the world destroyed, either. The demon wants to put past Spike back as much as we do, but he wants to do it in a way so as to subvert any permanent repercussions from the Powers That Be. Oz asked me if I could do that, so I'm going to try and psychically connect with the demon, combine our magics, and open up a portal while Oz goes off and finds Marissa and past Spike."

"They're not there?"

"Harmony and the demon scared them off," Violet explained, sitting cross-legged in the center of the circle. "Oz is going to track them, and the demon's going to keep a beacon on Oz so we can open the portal close to their location."

Watching as Violet lit three green candles and placed them in a triangle in front of her, Robbie was at a loss. He could deal with being stuck in a horror movie, and he dabbled in the realms of science fiction, but this whole time traveling vampire thing was too bizarre even for _him_. "Right," he said. "Well, is there anything I can do?"

Closing her eyes, Violet replied, "If you see me starting to pass out, try to catch me."

* * *

"I can't... I can't run anymore," William panted.

Pulling William into an alleyway, Marissa backed against the wall and kept an eye out behind them. "They're not chasing us," she wheezed. "Why aren't they chasing us? Is it Oz they want?" As her chest heaved in fear, she murmured, "Oh God, they're probably ripping him to shreds right now. Mom's going to come home and find fur and blood all over the living room."

"I'm quite sure he could take care of himself," William remarked, sinking to the ground.

Marissa looked back at him, hoping this wasn't going to take its toll on him in the long run. After making sure that they weren't being hunted, she lowered herself down to stoop besides him. "That's more than I can say for us, at least."

"I don't understand," William bemoaned. His hand was cramped, and he saw that he was grasping his papers in a death grip. Easing his hold on them, he looked down at the crumpled sheets and stated, "I'm not anyone special. Not the son of royalty or the husband of a wealthy lady. I'm simply a struggling poet, so what on earth could a troll and a vampire want with me _nearly one hundred and thirty years in the future_?!"

"I don't know," Marissa murmured. "But now that vamp can come into my house whenever she wants, because of that scabby little gnome. He must be working some kind of crazy magic to defy the basic vampire laws like that." Glancing at William, she asked, "What's the first thing you remember after you came here? The first time you saw the vampire, did she say anything? Anything that'll explain how or why you're here?"

Still breathing hard, William thought back on it for a moment. "They were arguing," he recalled. "Possibly about my presence. She then claimed to know me, but realized that she must have been thinking about this Spike person instead. There was mention of a spell, of someone accidentally stating my 'true name' in the middle of it. And when the young woman proclaimed that she never wished to see Spike like this, her troll responded that she was trying to _kill_ him."

"So she was trying to put a spell on Spike," Marissa slowly reasoned out. "But said _your_ name instead of his. Maybe she was trying to bring him to her so she could kill him or something. But now that she has you... now that she has you, all she has to do is kill _you_, and he'll never exist."

Realizing what she was saying, William remarked, "Well, that _would _be convenient, wouldn't it?"

"What?"

"Get rid of me, and Spike will no longer be around," William brought up. "Spike is a vampire, and you hate vampires. My death will spare the world from one more creature of the night and the deaths of countless innocents. Poetic justice, in a way."

"Are you crazy?" Marissa blurted out. "There's no _justice_ in that. You're still a human being. I won't shed any tears if Spike ends up kicking it, but _you_...." Seeing William gaze up at her, Marissa pressed her lips together before turning away. "You're just a man. I'm not going to let you die."

William looked her over carefully. Just as he was about to reach out to her and say something, a shadow came from the other side of the alley. With a shout, William flinched against Marissa, causing her to look up at the newcomer.

"Oz!" Marissa exclaimed, not sure whether or not she should be relieved to see him in one piece. At the very least, he was in his human form once again. Aside from looking a little weary and on edge, he didn't seem to be too hurt. "What do they want with him?"

"The same thing we do, ironically enough," Oz said. He reached for Marissa, hurriedly pulling her up. "Come on. Violet and the vengeance demon are going to try and synch up their magic to open another portal."

"Get your hands off of her!" William called, rising to his feet and staring down Oz. Though he didn't know how well he'd fare against a werewolf, he felt a little better when he saw how short all of the men from the future apparently were. "There'll be no more of this magical nonsense, do you hear?"

"Spi-... William, take it easy," Oz told him, obligingly backing away from Marissa even as she pulled herself away from him. "We need to put you back in your time. From what they told me, you sticking around here is going to have one _hell_ of a bad effect if our Spike finds you."

"And who told you that?" Marissa asked suspiciously. "The things that brought him here to begin with?"

"It was an accident," Oz explained. "They wouldn't say _what_ they were trying to summon, but it definitely wasn't something that could end the world."

"End the world?" William scoffed. "Piffle! How can _I_ end the world?"

"Sci-fi physics," Oz told him quickly. "Similar to the temporal merging hypothesis. Think of the movie _The One_, only light on the Jet Li and heavy on the apocalypse."

"What are you talking about?" Marissa asked sternly.

"If Spike gets a load of William," Oz stated bluntly, "the world as we know it will no longer exist. It's like a computer coming across an improbable scenario. If it doesn't know how to handle it, its circuits will overload. That's what'll happen to the _world_." Seeing Marissa's downcast eyes, he said in a quieter voice, "Marissa, I'm not making this up."

Picking up a familiar scent, Oz glanced out of the mouth of the alley. Though it was several blocks away, Oz recognized the blond figure in the black trench coat speeding in their direction. "It's Spike! You two better-"

He was cut off by a sudden blow to the head and fell on the pavement, dazed. William dropped the trash can lid that he had used to hit Oz and grabbed Marissa's hand, pulling her further into the alley. "Come! There has to be someplace we can go to-"

It was his turn to be cut off, as a green flash of light burst into the dark alley and a shock sent them both flying to the ground. Marissa glanced up as the streetlights flickered, understanding that the wavering portal in front of them was causing some kind of energy disturbance. _That_ was what had caused the blackout earlier that evening.

The two of them pulled themselves up. Looking through the flickering gateway that was being powered by the faerie and the demon, William remarked, "Why, it's London! It's the alleyway in which I was sitting before I...." Looking down at Marissa, a bit of disappointment snuck into his voice as he concluded, "It's home."

Marissa turned back to look at Oz. "You hit him," she gasped. "Why'd you hit him?"

"He was hurting you," William replied. "He _was_, wasn't he? I didn't gather he was a friend of yours. But this nonsense about me destroying the world-"

"It's not nonsense," Marissa told him, looking up at him. "At least, I don't think it is. I mean, it seems a little far-fetched, but... but if it's true and Spike's on his way, you need to get going. He's probably doubling his speed right now, after seeing Oz fall and the lights and... you need to go!"

"I think I'd rather like to meet this Spike person."

With an irritated sound, Marissa grabbed his arms and pulled him towards the portal. "William, go!"

When he crossed over, he took hold of her arms and quietly said, "I don't want to."

"_What_?"

"I need a spot of excitement in my life," William explained, staring at her intently. "This world is _full_ of it. Teeming with it, if you will. And yet out of all of the exciting things I've seen, _you're_ the only one that hasn't terrified me. You've made it possible for me to ignore the snide remarks of my cohorts and to move on after my heart was dashed to pieces. You-"

"You can't throw away the life you're meant for just for an adventure," Marissa told him. "You'll have plenty adventure soon enough, so you need to go back so we can set things right."

"Even if it leads to vampirism?" William asked. "Even if it kills the spark entirely?"

"The spark won't die," she replied. "_You're_ the spark. The embers might be weak for a while, but they'll catch to something again, and that vicious cycle will continue. But it won't if the world ends." Hearing movement behind her, she whispered, "See you in another hundred and thirty years," just before shoving him through the portal and stepping back.

"What in the bleeding hell is going on?" Spike cried out, racing from around the corner. The wind from this lane was suddenly billowing almost hard enough to knock him off his feet, and nearly stumbling over Oz didn't do much to help his balance. Getting his bearings straight, he saw what looked like a dim green light fade away, leaving Marissa staring into it.

After a few moments, the streetlights stabilized and Marissa slowly turned around. Without meeting Spike's gaze, she silently walked past him as Oz slowly made his way onto his feet. When he saw the pensive expression on her face, Spike followed her onto the well-lit street.

Standing under a streetlamp, the pair said nothing for a while. Finally, Marissa whispered, "You knew, didn't you? You always knew that you'd... that we'd...."

"Yeah," Spike admitted, his hands in his pockets. "There were times when I thought it had been just a case of the crazies, but it wasn't much of an accident that I happened upon you and Hercules at _Neon_ that night."

Taking this in, Marissa needed a moment before she breathed, "How much longer until you became-"

"You pushed me through," he responded, "I had myself a cry-fest, ripped up the bits of paper in my hands, and then she approached me. I'll give it three minutes before I traded up on the food chain."

"Oh God," Marissa choked. "_I_ might as well have turned you myself."

"No," Spike remarked. "You were just trying to save the world. It would have happened regardless, if Harmony hadn't screwed up the spell. Wish I could've put the pieces together and remember the details a bit faster, though; would've saved us a whole lot of time."

"Time," Marissa mused quietly, still not looking up at him. "Seems like we've already got all the time we need. It just... just happens. Even if we find ourselves all disjointed, we eventually find our way back." Realizing that she was babbling, Marissa covered her face in her hands and declared, "And what's worse is that I was actually _preventing_ the stupid vampire from putting you back where you belong."

"You're a regular agent of chaos," Spike smirked jokingly. "But that's all right. Makes you more interesting. Which is just as well, since you'd otherwise be as boring as a dry piece of toast." After a pause, he asked, "So, do you still think I'm this big scary beastie that's going to drink you dry at the slightest provocation?"

"_All_ vampires started out like you," Marissa told him sharply. "Then once they get turned-"

"They become loathsome, amoral, soulless beasts, or something to that effect," Spike said, putting on his original dialect as he echoed the words that he had said over a century ago that Marissa had just heard only half an hour ago. "Thing is, I'm _not_ soulless."

"But loathsome and amoral?"

"No one's perfect," he replied. "Near as I can recall, you considered that part of my charm."

"'Charm' isn't quite the word."

With a faint smile, Spike responded, "Fine then. A pact. You concede to view me as a neutral force rather than a bitter enemy, and I'll promise never to tell anyone how terrible your tea is." Seeing her smirk and the roll of her eyes, Spike stuck out his hand. "Truce?"

"Car," Oz said from behind them.

Looking at him, Spike asked, "What?"

"Car!" Oz cried, pointing to the street.

Spike and Marissa whirled around in time to see a green Chevrolet convertible speeding towards them with no clear intent of stopping. Grabbing Marissa, Spike pulled her out of the way and the both of them went tumbling along the sidewalk as the vehicle screeched to a halt just before it could crash into the streetlight they had been standing under.

Oz sped towards the two of them as they sat up, gawking at the near-accident. Spike froze when he saw the person behind the wheel stand up, gazing at him coldly. Though it took him a moment to recognize him, this was another blast from his past. The difference was, he was fairly certain that the man who was now aiming a revolver at the group of them was long dead. Still, that had never stopped the baddies before. The difference? As far as Spike knew, this new aggressor didn't have much of a history for being bad.

In a low whisper, Allen Francis Doyle remarked, "Hello, Spike."


	5. Downfall

_Come on and lay it down  
I've always been with you  
Here and now  
Give all that's within you  
Be my savior  
And I'll be your downfall_

-"Downfall" by Matchbox Twenty

* * *

"Well," Spike remarked, "_this_ can't be good."

"You're wrong," Doyle told him, getting out of the car while keeping his gun steadily aimed at Spike. "The way I look at it, this is _very_ good. See, I work for the good guys. _You_ don't. So in my book, having you cornered is a _very_ good thing."

"Oh, you're fighting for the forces of good, then?" Spike asked, clearly relieved. "That makes this simpler." Grabbing Marissa, he pulled her in front of him and ignored her frightened yelp. "Funny thing about good guys, we don't like to see innocent people get caught in the crossfire. Shoot me, and it'll go through her and hurt me like a bitch. I'll wager the bullet will do a _lot_ more damage to her, though."

Seeing Doyle's hesitance, Spike slowly rose from the ground and pulled Marissa up with him. He didn't know how good Doyle's aim was, but he didn't want to give him too much of an opening before they could figure out a few things. Primarily, Spike wanted to figure out why this vaguely-familiar man was not dead (as he had been led to believe so many years before), and he wanted Doyle to figure out that he was no longer evil (at least until that weapon was out of the Irishman's hands). "So," Spike began carefully. "How've you been?"

"Dead," Doyle replied. "Got better. You?"

"The same, actually," Spike responded.

"Oh," Doyle stated. "Good for you."

"Yeah," Spike told him. "The Powers apparently decided it'd be a waste to let a good-looking bastard like myself crumble into dust, so I was plopped back here on Earth to beat up the naughties and mock the goodies. Oh! And between point a and point b, I picked me up a soul."

"You... what?" Doyle sputtered, confused. "A... you have a soul?"

"Yep."

"You mean you're not... _evil_ anymore?"

"Allegedly," Oz brought up. Seeing Spike's harsh glare, he retracted that with, "I mean, no." When he had Doyle's attention, Oz offered him a small wave. "Your name escapes me at the moment, but I think we've met. You worked in a less gun-toting capacity with Angel and Cordelia, right? I'm Oz."

"Oh, hi," Doyle greeted warmly. "Doyle. Yeah, last I saw you, we teamed up because Angel was getting himself tortured over a piece of enchanted jewelry. Speaking of-" At this, he gawked at Spike again. "-weren't _you_ the bad guy responsible for the torturing?"

"Evil then," Spike explained. "Not now."

"Huh," Doyle remarked. Pointing towards Marissa with the gun, he asked, "Is that why you've got a hostage?"

"You've got a bloody _gun_ pointed at me!" Spike exclaimed. "I'm not gonna stand here and let you use me for bloody target practice! Since I know you're not gonna shoot a girl to get to me, she stays here until you either put that gun down or we get it through your thick skull that I've got an honest-to-goodness soul creeping around beneath my skin!"

"I don't know which one of those things is more likely to happen," Doyle replied. "Especially not when I'm still reeling from the migraine brought about by a vision showing that same girl in danger from a particularly nasty vampire. And, oh look, what do I find? That girl. Held hostage by a particularly nasty vampire. Coincidence?"

"Oh please, don't let there be another vampire," Marissa whimpered. "Please oh please oh please-"

"Now look what you've done," Spike scolded. "You've made her go into babble-mode."

"Okay," Oz broke in. "Something tells me that Doyle's not going to listen to anything _you've_ got to say, Spike, so let me relate this as best as I can." To Doyle, he asked, "Do you remember a girl by the name of Buffy?"

"You mean the Slayer that Angel was head-over-heels about?"

"Yeah. Well, Spike ended up feeling the same way."

"You're kidding," Doyle laughed. "Angel must've really given him a good ass-kicking, eh?"

"That's none of your damn business, thank you," Spike told him.

"Anyway," Oz continued, "long story short, Spike fell in love, thought he needed a soul to prove his love, and he went about earning it back. He ended up sacrificing himself to prevent the First Evil from rising up out of the Sunnydale Hellmouth and taking over the world, proving himself to be a champion for the Powers That Be."

"You left out my many daring exploits and conquests," Spike mentioned.

Disgusted, Marissa groaned, "Spike...."

"What?" Spike asked. "I didn't mean sexual, though there are a few of _those_, too."

"Oh yeah," Doyle breathed sarcastically, "this is _definitely_ making me believe that he's joined the ranks of the good 'n true." Giving Oz a considering glance, he added, "Then again...."

"I had a crossbow aimed at him," Oz informed him. "The only reason I believed he changed his spots was because my buddy Xander Harris vouched for him. Xander's Buffy's second-in-command. He also happens to be that girl's cousin. I think it's safe to say that Xander wouldn't leave her behind with a dangerous vampire like Spike in town unless he was sure that he was backing the right horse."

After a long time in which he thought it over carefully, Doyle told Spike, "Let her go and I'll put the gun down."

"Put the gun down," Spike answered, "and I'll let her go."

"No," Doyle responded resolutely.

"Spike," Oz sighed, "just let Marissa go."

"No!" Spike proclaimed. "He'll shoot me!"

"Suck it up," Doyle muttered. "It's not like you'll die."

"You ever been shot before?" Spike asked. "Burns like a bugger."

Exasperated, Marissa slammed her heel down on Spike's foot and pulled herself out of his grasp when he loosened his grip. Pivoting around, she grabbed the collar of his shirt and jabbed him sharply in the nose. As he cried out, she declared, "I am _so_ over this whole little girl lost crap!" Turning to Doyle, she growled, "Are you a vampire?"

"What?" Doyle asked, startled. "No!"

"Werewolf?"

"No."

"From another time or dimension?"

"No and no."

With a sigh, she told Spike and Oz, "He's more qualified to handle that gun than either of _you_ are." Placing a hand on her head, she began walking backwards towards her house as she remarked, "Look, I've got a house to clean up and a vamp de-invite spell to figure out. If you boys can just solve your problems amongst yourselves, that'd be great. And if it must involve bloodshed, just make sure that most of it belongs to Spike. If anyone follows me, I refuse to be held responsible for any bones I may break."

Watching her as she walked off, Doyle uttered a low whistle and turned back to the others. "Well, that's what some would call a special cookie. Has it hard-up for you vamps and weres, doesn't she?"

Getting over the stinging feeling in his nose, Spike bitterly remarked, "She's a few wheels short of a proper trolley, that's for certain. Now what say you put that pistol of yours away so's we can suss out what needs to get talked about?"

"Yeah," Oz agreed. "I would like some insight as to why, out of the three of us here, I'm apparently the only one who is not nor has never been dead."

"A wee bit of luck, I imagine," Doyle responded. While he was still distrustful of Spike, he lowered his gun. Still, much to Spike's disappointment, he also didn't put it away. "The way I came to reckon it, I thought _I_ was the one who sacrificed myself to save countless innocents and thus proved myself to be a champion for the Powers. Looks like someone decided to jump on my bandwagon and steal my thunder."

"Oh please," Spike scoffed. "Angel played the same card when he learned I had a soul. I'm not exactly the sort of guy that goes around following in the examples of others, now am I?"

"How _is_ Angel these days?" Doyle asked.

Before he could stop himself, Spike replied, "Dead." Seeing the shock and sadness in the other man's face, he elaborated, "Wolfram and Hart pushed him over the edge. He was starting to lose the mission, and he needed a way out. Staked himself, left me to carry the cross he left behind. And damn, does that cross burn more than usual sometimes." Although he was somewhat reluctant to bring it up, Spike concluded, "Takes one hell of a man to realize when he's out of the game. Took a man like Angel to have the stones to actually take himself out of it."

"One of a kind," Doyle remarked hollowly. After a difficult swallow, he smiled weakly and inquired, "But he fought the good fight, yeah? Never stopped trying?"

"Fought until he just couldn't fight anymore," Spike affirmed.

With a slow nod, it seemed as though Doyle was beginning to accept the idea that Spike, after speaking so respectfully about the man that he had once kidnapped and tortured, might have actually turned over a new leaf. Heaving a deep sigh that was the closest he'd allow for a sob, Doyle then eyed Oz as he asked, "How's Cordelia getting along without Angel, then?"

"Also dead," Spike broke in.

Doyle whirled around to gawk at Spike. Though he waited for another explanation, he received none. Spike didn't think he'd know how to best sum up Cordelia's death, especially since he had technically been dead himself during most of the events surrounding it. It was one thing to state that she had fallen into a coma that she had never woken up from, and another thing altogether to explain the mess of events that led to said coma. "But hey," Spike finally remarked, "at least now she's a goddess."

Taking Spike's reluctance to divulge the details as a sign of especially harrowing events-and also knowing that Cordelia must have gone through unspeakable torment while alive to be granted the position of a Higher Being-Doyle looked down as he composed himself. Finally, in a strained whisper, he remarked, "She always was."

Getting a hold of himself, he forced another strained smile on his face as he looked up at the unlikely allies before him. "So, Angel's dead. Cordy's dead. I'm sensing a common theme in the not-alive department. Next you're gonna tell me that the Slayer's gone, too."

"Oh no," Spike replied. "The Slayer's not dead... anymore."

"Oh," Doyle responded, trying not to focus on the last word in that statement. "Good. The world hasn't changed _that_ much, then."

"Only," Spike brought up, "there are a few _thousand_ Slayers cavorting about the world now."

After a beat, Doyle dryly mentioned, "Oh look. I was wrong. Fancy that."

"Well, you know what they say," Oz stated. "The world, she keeps turning, and she waits for no man. Even if he _does_ manage to get himself resurrected. Speaking of, anytime you'd care to relay the story of how you played chess against Death and actually managed to win, I wouldn't mind a set of cheat codes."

"You've got your visions," Spike noted. "From what I've heard, you traded them off with Cordy before you kicked it. Did the Powers That Be bring you back all of a sudden because they knew we'd need you? That why you had a vision about me 'n the pup, or were you lurking around in a dazed state, trying to figure out what your place in the world was before the vision smacked you upside the cranium?"

Doyle said nothing for a moment, then sighed as he carefully put his gun in his jacket pocket and crossed his arms over his chest. "Wish I could say that I was stirred from my eternal slumber by a greater calling bidding me to come back to Earth because I had some unfinished business to take care of. I guess we can't all be men of destiny like a certain pair of ensouled vampires." After another moment, he looked down and explained, "Loan sharks brought me back. I died with a tidy debt on my head, and these fellas don't like being 'cheated' out of their hard-stolen cash. I should've read the fine print in the contract."

Neither Spike nor Oz said anything for a time. At length, Spike blurted out, "Loan sharks? What, the demon kind, or just your regular every day mafia? Because the demons I know wouldn't stoop to invoking that kind of dark magic just for some chump change."

"This _wasn't_ chump change," Doyle corrected harshly. "This was something else." Shaking his head as though in awe of his own stupidity, he declared, "I was in a bad spot in my life after learning that I'm half-demon. I did a lot of fairly stupid things, most of it going way over my head. Made some poor deals, even worse bets. When I died, these guys actually thought that I was purposely cheating them out of what was rightfully theirs. So they brought me back with every intention of making me either make good on my payments, or doing whatever they can to make me wish I was dead again, if you get my drift."

"What'd you do?" Oz asked. "Did you manage to pay them back?"

"Oh hell no!" Doyle exclaimed. "I kicked the biggest one in the balls and threatened the rest of them with dear old Captain Brooding. His reputation was good enough that it got me out of that jam with the skin on my back. Quite literally, since I was wearing nothing but my birthday suit. Since then, I've been rebuilding my life the best way I know how: faking amnesia any time I see one of my old buddies and seeing how many strings I can pull before they get wise to me."

Furrowing his brow, Oz remarked, "For a dead man, you lead a very complicated life."

"Don't I know it," Doyle muttered. "In all honesty, it wasn't all that complicated until an hour or two ago. I was living a pretty normal life, as far as one can when the world believes he's dead. I thought time and again about going to see Angel, but decided against it for a bunch of reasons. Figured it'd be the first place the bad guys would look for me, and I also realized that I wouldn't be much use to Angel Investigations, since I had given Cordy my visions and was now just your standard Joe."

"Wait," Spike commented, "if you _don't_ have your visions, how'd you see-?"

"Cut me some slack, man!" Doyle interrupted. "All this talking is thirsty work. Is there a decent pub nearby where I could wet my whistle, or did the Powers lead us all to some ungodly backwater town?"

"I could help 'wet your whistle' by feeding you your own blood," Spike growled. "Which I may be tempted to do it you don't get on with it."

"Oh yeah," Doyle said sardonically, though his hand slowly went to the weapon in his pocket, "_this_ here is a genuine champion of the Powers That Be. I liked it better when Angel was around. At least when _he_ threatened me... oh wait, he never did."

"I'm not Angel," Spike stated bluntly. "And I'm definitely not your boss, paying you to sit around an office and make googly eyes at a secretary while I go out and fight evil things. I don't know exactly how long you've been gone, Irish, and I don't much care. The fact of the matter is that the world _has_ changed. It's changed a whole bloody lot. I've had to deal with everything from evil ghosts to super-powered werewolves to bloody _time traveling_, and that's only been in recent weeks. So if I've got a half-demon who gets visions from the Powers That Be standing in front of me, I'd like to know _why_."

After a moment, Doyle gripped his gun and asked Oz, "Is he always this aggressive?"

"Oh no, I think he likes you," Oz replied. "He didn't use any expletives."

"If you think that toy in your pocket's gonna do much to stop me," Spike told Doyle, "you've forgotten that I can kill you before you even take it to mind to pull the trigger. The fact that I didn't earlier only proves that I'm trying to put things where they belong, so don't do anything stupid. Being half-demon means that your blood's too rank for me to even be tempted to take a nip."

"Check out Mister Compassion," Doyle remarked. "Saying that the Powers work in mysterious ways is one hell of an understatement, if _you're_ the lead good guy. All right then, here we go: I'm walking down the street earlier tonight, minding my own business and trying to downplay my irresistibility so I don't end up attracting the wrong people. I suddenly find myself in a bright white light, being spoken to by a voice that I can't quite place, though I've definitely heard it before. Then it hits me; I'm being talked at by one of the Augurs, who are one of the many groups that act as the Powers' voice. They keep tabs on the vessels that've been charged with those fun little head-splitting visions, though no living person's ever been in their presence. I don't know if it's gotta do with me having been brought back from the great beyond, but I basically gained clearance to pop up in their realm and have a sit-down. Or a stand-up, really, since they're not much for chairs in any of the otherworldly dimensions. Anyway, I'm basically told, 'Congratulations! The Powers decided to give you your visions back! Here's your first one! Boom!' And like a sledgehammer to the brain, I get a load of that girl that just walked off, being cornered by something or someone. Viewpoints changed quite a bit and it was dark, so all I got to see of the aggressor was yellow eyes and sharp teeth-definitely vamp. I'm spat out of the Augurs' chambers, scramble around town for a bit before I could steal a car, and my gut brings me here."

"I didn't go all wrinkly in the forehead region when the pup was here," Spike informed him.

"I know," Doyle answered. "But let's look at the facts. The whole point of having visions is so I can go about stopping bad things _before_ they happen. And since I know you're a vampire and I recognized the girl, it was safe for me to say that I got the right locale based on my instincts. You didn't exactly come off as the type to go hero the last I saw you, but that _was_ nearly ten years ago. Still, there's another factor to consider: my visions were never followed by 'gut instincts.' Something dragged me here. Even if you're not the vamp that's after that girl, I was still drawn to you."

"Well, he _does_ have a kind of bad boy charm going for him," Oz commented.

"Shut up," Spike replied. To Doyle he stated, "I don't see anything off about that. When humans are brought back, they come back a little different. A little off. So maybe the human bit of you became just a little less human, and you've acquired a new ability. Either that, or the Powers were giving you a little push and shove towards the neighborhood, trying to get you to meet up with yours truly."

"Adjust your clothes, hotshot; your conceit's showing," Doyle remarked. "I saw the girl. _She_ was the one from my vision. The only way you'd have been involved is if you really _were_ the vamp that was threatening her. If that's the case, there's only one reason for the Powers to bring me to you."

"I've stared into the very bowels of Hell and have fought against things that'd make you wet your pants with a single dirty look," Spike proclaimed. "I may not have won every battle, but I'm still standing with nothing but a scar from an enchanted blade back during my youth. I think that if the Powers _really_ wanted me permanently down for the count, they'd be able to find someone much more qualified to whip me than the likes of Angel's former gopher."

Watching as the tension rose between the two of them, Oz finally stepped in and looked at Doyle. "You know, I _really_ hate admitting this, but Spike's got a point. He won't be up for sainthood anytime soon, but I don't think the Powers would give you your visions back just to hunt him down and kill him, especially when all you've got to arm yourself is a gun. Unless you've figured out a way to make wooden bullets that won't combust while you shoot, in which case, that'd be some pretty handy knowledge to pass along."

Taking his gun out of his pocket and looking down at it, Doyle said regretfully, "I was shaken up by my first vision since being brought back four years ago. I didn't even have a weapon until I checked the glove department of the ride I rigged. Figured I'd shoot him in the legs so he couldn't run until I find something to turn into a stake. It's sort of a plan, yeah?"

Even as Spike silently admitted to himself that it would've been a terribly effective plan if he hadn't had Marissa there to use as collateral, Oz stumbled across an interesting piece of information. "You were brought back four years ago?" When Doyle nodded, Oz looked to Spike. "When was it that you said Wolfram and Hart made their final move against Angel?"

"2004," Spike responded. "Which was... four years ago."

As the trio let this sink in, Oz realized something else. To Doyle, he queried, "And you said you got your vision about an hour or two ago?" Looking to his watch, he asked, "Would 8:15 sound like a good approximation?"

"Yeah," Doyle affirmed. "Sounds about right."

Oz glanced at Spike. "That's about the same time that the lights went out, which is when Harmony and the demon cast that spell incorrectly. They ripped through time, did something that should technically be impossible and lead to the end of the world through sheer stupidity, and he gets a vision and a 'gut feeling' to come here. I'd say that it'd be a miracle if there _isn't_ a connection between all of these things."

"Wait," Doyle said. "You're... you're saying that I wasn't just brought back by the loan sharks to square a debt? That it all came together like-"

"Like fate," Spike finished. "He was always meant to come back, always meant to stay out of the mess with Wolfram and Hart. Because now that he's got his visions back, he's like our ace in the hole." To Oz, he added, "You too. You left Sunnydale way before the big guns started coming in, meaning that some of the Scoobies' most dangerous enemies never got to know who you were." Running a hand through his hair, he realized, "Someone was keeping you out of the way to keep someone else blind."

The three of them stood silent for some time. Spike's mind raced with the possibilities. If Oz and Doyle had indeed been prematurely removed from their respective groups because of an act of fate and suddenly found themselves thrust into this situation, then that meant that they could now narrow down their choices of Big Bads, if it was indeed someone from their past. On the Sunnydale end, Oz disappeared halfway through the big Initiative cover-up, but Spike doubted that the government was involved in the sudden appearance of scores of ghosts. He also doubted that the nerd trio could have anything to do with this, since two of them were dead and the third one had actually become a Watcher in his reformed years. That left either Glory or the First. At least he had been in the ballpark before.

As for the fun that Doyle had missed out on due to a slight case of death, there was really only one possibility, as Angel's main Big Bad hadn't changed during his entire stay in Los Angeles. Someone from Wolfram and Hart had once used Doyle's identity to his benefit before, so it wasn't likely that they had simply forgotten about him. Nor was it likely, however, that they'd interrupt their finely-tuned plans to come back and stir a bit of trouble ahead of schedule, especially not when their more havoc-causing agents were dead and have learned their lessons. While there had been a lot of tampering with Cordelia's visions, Spike felt that he could confidently rule out most of the dealings in Los Angeles. And with Glory presumably dead, that left the First as the most likely candidate.

"So what we're saying here," Doyle brought up, "is that I actually have a purpose? A real, honest-to-goodness destiny? I'm not just some slacker brought back to work as an indentured slave until I'm square?" With a large grin, he pumped his fist and gleefully called, "Yes! Thank you, PTB!"

"You are _far_ too happy about possibly having to fight in an epic war," Oz murmured.

"You don't understand," Doyle told him. "When you go, you figure that's it. You sacrifice yourself for the greater good and your book's closed, never to be opened again. And then when some hack writer starts adding new dialogue, you start thinking, 'Well, maybe that's not true. Maybe I'm not just a minor character, the comic relief that has to die to make the dark 'n broody star even more dark 'n broody.' But getting that sense of importance crushed when you find that you're just expected to make good on a few debts, that's even worse than never even having that hope at all. Dead man walking; it takes on quite a literal turn. So while you'll never hear me praising any Higher Powers for giving me those skull-crushing visions again, at least-hey, wait."

As though having just stumbled upon a horrible mistake, Doyle cried, "The girl! The girl from my vision. She's being targeted by a vamp. And if it's not Spike, I don't know what other scary master vampire's creeping around this town that could get that tough chick as scared stiff as she was in my head."

"Master vampire?" Oz asked.

"One of the older ones," Spike explained. "Strictly speaking, the term's designated for the classical namby-pambies, like the leftovers from the Order of Aurelius. Since so many of us have been getting dusted left and right by the Slayers, though, the young'ns have started using that for any vamp turned a hundred or more years ago. Makes me feel like a senior citizen, even though I'm the youngest in the family." To Doyle, he asked, "How do you know it was a master?"

"I could feel it," Doyle ascertained. "Just... just by looking at it. I don't know what it was, but I could tell he was old, and he was _bad_. The kid's not going to be able to fend for herself if she bumps into him tonight."

"You think whatever portal Harmony and the demon opened could have let this other thing through?" Oz asked Spike. "Or that this could be the creature they were originally trying to summon? Have we got something else running around out there that needs to get taken care of before bedtime?"

"Two major conflicts in one night," Spike mused. "Someone up there must've gotten bored and decided to mess with the program." Thinking it over for a moment, he decided, "The pup's not gonna take kindly to seeing me or Wolf Boy any time soon, so I think the best bet for the two of us would be to scout out her usual haunts for any new vamps and make sure her house is secure." Looking at Doyle, he added, "She doesn't know you're not a full human, so she's probably much more likely to trust you than either of us. Feed her a story and keep an eye on her until we give you word that she's safe. Think you can handle that?"

"Distract the damsel in distress with my ineffable charm?" Doyle grinned. "That's right up my alley."

* * *

"I still say we should've stayed in the house and waited for that girl to come back," Harmony declared.

Briskly gathering the materials to re-do the spell, Sadrahd ignored Harmony as best as he could. She had been prattling on and on ever since he had synched up with the faerie girl called Violet and used their combined powers to send Spike's past self back to his proper era. Now that he was enraged by the complete waste of time brought on by Harmony's mistake during the previous incantation, he wasn't about to squander his dwindling energies on explaining his reasoning to her once again. She never _was_ one for the big picture, after all.

"I mean," Harmony continued as she followed Sadrahd around the lair, "_I_ didn't know that that was Xander's cousin. She was just some girl that got in my way from bringing that dweeb back here. But since you want her to be all, like, tortured and junk, _hello_! I was standing right in her house! I could've snuck up into her room, seen if she had any decent CDs or anything, and waited for her to come back and had a little party. And by party, I _totally_ mean her messy and painful death. But nooo, someone was doing his best imitation of Mr. Impatient Pants, and now we're over here trying to do another spell so you could just mess it up again and we can be stuck doing this for the rest of forever. You know, I have better things to do with my immortality."

"Harmony, g-give me your hand," Sadrahd finally told her. Unthinkingly, she complied while beginning yet another tangent, but cut herself off when she saw him bring the flat end of his pocket knife to her palm once more. Looking into his steely gray eyes, she finally realized that he had reached the end of his rope. It was possible that even the promise of lots of sex wouldn't ease his rage.

"V-vampires are f-fun-funny creatures," he said quietly. "You can b-bleed them dry, and they won't d-die. They just g-get very, very hungry. And their skin-it's sort of like what a p-prune would be like, if prunes had a habit of g-g-going insane. Now, I can either c-cut your hand like I did before, or I can string you up from the ceiling and slit your th-throat, appeasing the dark forces no matter _what_ I say during the spell. That all depends on how annoyed I get in the n-next five minutes. Do you understand?"

While Harmony didn't mind a "mean streak" in her men, she wasn't all too fond of the prospect of becoming a crazy prune lady. Images of a blonde California raisin quickly sprung to mind, and she made a face and nodded her head. Satisfied with the response, Sadrahd made a quick slice on her palm and once again let the droplets of blood fall into the flames of the candles in between them, silently vowing to kill her if she interfered again.

With the darkness growing stronger around them, Sadrahd began the spell that he knew would bring Spike to his knees.

* * *

"Looks like I came too late for the party."

Marissa whirled around at the sound of the Irish accent that came from behind her. She had been crouching on the floor and assessing the damages made to her living room by the skirmish between Oz and Sadrahd, and she hadn't managed to fix the door after it had gotten itself broken down again. It was a good thing her mother worked nights and wouldn't be back home for another seven hours.

"You're not getting an invitation," she told the man that she recognized as the one with the gun.

"We've already been through this," he said, cautiously coming in and sidestepping a few knickknacks. "I'm not a vampire, so I don't need an invite. It's a good thing, too. The not-being-a-vampire bit. Can you imagine going through eternity with this lovely visage and not casting a reflection?"

"Vamp or not," Marissa stated, grabbing a piece of broken glass from a fallen picture frame and wielding it carefully, "you shouldn't come in without an invitation. It's a thing called etiquette, and apparently none of Spike's friends learned it if they like to go around crashing their cars into lampposts before brandishing guns at strangers."

"Hey, whoa," he replied, holding his hands up defensively and backing away when he saw the glass. "Careful there. I thought he was going to hurt you, so I figured I'd try to separate the two of you to help up my chances of not shooting you when the firefight started. Say what you want about my manners, but _don't_ go around claiming I'm Spike's friend. After finding that he's not evil, I'm just his... impartial acquaintance who wouldn't cry a river if he accidentally fell on a stake despite the fact that he's supposedly got some higher purpose in the grand scheme of things."

Though she still regarded him with suspicion, Marissa slowly lowered the piece of glass when he mentioned that he wasn't Spike's friend. There seemed to be a lot of that going around. First it was Xander, then Robbie, then Oz, and now this guy. And yet now they were one little tight-knit group along with Violet, causing a ruckus in her sleepy little town. After a moment, she asked, "Are you sure you're not... undead or something?"

He smirked for a moment before shaking his head. "I wouldn't put up a fight if you decided to feel around for a pulse, but if that's not your cup of tea, you'll have to take my word for it. I'm a genuine living, breathing, flesh-and-blood man, and I don't happen to turn into a wolf or anything once a month, either." Seeing her completely lower the glass, he slowly approached her and held out a hand. "The name's Doyle."

Marissa looked at his hand before standing up and backing away from it. "Marissa. And I don't need help getting up, so you can forget about the whole chivalry thing if it's just an attempt at getting me to trust you."

"Actually," Doyle countered, "it was my attempt at a greeting. See, there's this quaint old Irish custom where you meet a person and clasp your hand to theirs, then shake it once or twice as a friendly way of saying hello."

"Sarcasm," Marissa realized, crossing her arms over her chest. "Nice. Do _all_ of the members of Spike's saving-the-world entourage have college degrees on the subject?"

"I wouldn't know," Doyle replied, putting his hands in his pockets after seeing that she wasn't going to shake hands with him. "My degree's in elementary education, and I've only ever taken one course in sarcasm. Lots of fun, it was."

"Elementary education?" Marissa asked, surprised. "What, you mean you're a grade school teacher?"

"Was," he responded. "Then my life got a little complicated. Demons got involved. Had to leave the job, and I left a whole lot of other things that were probably stupid of me to leave, too. You're not a friend of demons, are you?"

Marissa noted that he asked the question with an air of trepidation, and decided that he was worried that she had a soft spot for them. "No," she answered icily. "I'm not. Hate them slightly less than I hate vampires, but after seeing that little gnome that had the power to invite a vamp into my own house, I'm definitely not too fond of anything less than human."

Doyle pursed his lips and nodded slowly, as though considering her answer. After a long pause, he looked around the house and remarked, "Let me help you clean up, yeah? Unless you're lucky enough to have a nice set of digs like this all to yourself, I'm thinking someone's eventually going to come home and won't want to see this mess."

She watched as he grabbed the toolbox she had set on the coffee table and headed towards the door. Though aiming a gun at her wasn't exactly an ideal way to make a first impression, Marissa went over the facts that she knew. Fact: Doyle had been aiming at Spike and wasn't going to shoot if it meant getting her hurt. Fact: Doyle had admitted to not being Spike's friend and to not really caring all that much if the vampire was suddenly dusted. Fact: Doyle had his way of life destroyed by demons. All things considered, she had no reason to believe that he would suddenly turn on her.

Of course, there was still a matter of a couple of paranormal instances that he'd have to account for. "You were dead," she said quietly. Seeing him glance at her from over his shoulder, she explained, "Back there, with Spike and Oz, you said that you were dead and got better. What did you mean?"

"Exactly what it sounded like," Doyle told her, turning his attention back to the door. Grunting as he lifted the heavy wood, he continued, "I was working with Angel, a vampire with a soul. Not like Spike, who apparently has one now, but a good, decent sort of guy who was just trying to do his part to make the world a better place." His voice quieted down a little as he stopped pulling on the door after propping it up. "I had run out on some people that needed my help years back, and it led to something of a massacre. I wasn't about to let that happen again. So when Angel was about to sacrifice himself for the same sorts of people, I stepped up to the plate. Fought the good fight." After a moment, he remarked, "I don't remember where I was when I went, but I knew it was a pretty all right sort of place. And when I was rushed back here to the land of the living, things got a little... claustrophobic."

Watching him as he continued to attempt to move the door into its frame, Marissa wondered over the blanks that Doyle was purposely leaving in his story. She didn't know enough about him to know what he meant by an "all right sort of place." Was it really a place that was simply "all right," or was that his way of referring to Heaven? If that was the case, what must it have felt like, being there and then suddenly coming back here?

She suddenly remembered something that Spike had told her when she had first encountered the ghosts that were now haunting Woodridge. He had said that the worst thing you can threaten a dead person with is the promise of resurrection, since the bad ones are always afraid of going someplace worse and the good ones don't want to leave the place they ended up in. Which one of those qualified for Doyle?

Doyle set to work examining the doorframe, noting that the hinges had simply popped off and there was no damage to the wood. It was nothing a little work with a screwdriver couldn't fix, but the challenge was balancing the door in such a way that he could actually get the screwdriver out of the toolbox in his hand. A shame his omnipresent charm decided not to be so omnipresent right about now-

He looked up when he felt a bit of the weight of the door being lifted from his hands. He saw that Marissa had sidled in besides him, and she held onto the doorknob with her left hand and did her best to balance the door with her body. "Well," Doyle chuckled, "looks like we're gonna have us a lesson in teamwork, huh?" He opened up the toolbox and began looking for a screwdriver, but stopped when he saw movement from the corner of his eye. Glancing up, he saw that she was holding her free hand out to him.

"Or humility," she responded quietly. "Mind if we start over?" She didn't say anything else until he slowly took her hand and gave it a gentle shake. "Marissa Harris. Thanks for not shooting me. If you do a good job on the door, I'll give you something to drink. All we've got, though, is bad tea and Coors Light, so if you want anything else you'll have to drive me to _Neon_."

"Allen Francis Doyle," he replied with a small smile. "You're very welcome. Pointless bloodshed in front of a vampire who may or may not still be slightly evil is never a good thing. And I'm not much of a fan of any beer with the word 'light' in its name, but if you can give me directions to this _Neon_ place, I'll be more than happy to make the trip with you."

"Let's see how well you do on the door, first," Marissa told him.

* * *

Harmony was beginning to think that this plan was just a little _too_ evil for her.

She wasn't exactly sensitive to dark magic, nor was she a particularly perceptive person. Still, she could feel her skin tingling in a way that it didn't even do when she wore cheap polyester (of course, that had only been twice in her life, so her memory could be faulty). There was a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach as Sadrahd continued chanting, but she didn't dare say or do anything to stop it. His threats had been effective, and even _she_ knew enough to know not to push a demon to its limits.

She had to think of the good. So what if the room was going dark with a heavy blackness that would have suffocated her if she needed to breathe? So what if she could almost feel the tendrils of the evil powers that Sadrahd was invoking brushing against her cheeks? So what if he was squeezing her hand tightly to keep her from trembling, or perhaps to keep _himself_ from trembling? What mattered was that the creature they were summoning was the ultimate way to get rid of Spike. It would hurt him emotionally, and it will beat him into a bloody pulp before finally tying him to a tree and leaving him out until sunrise. And by being involved in that, she'd definitely earn her title of "evil mastermind." So she simply had to suck it up and be evil.

Harmony watched Sadrahd's demonic face once again force itself out as he called out to the dark forces for the second time tonight. This time, she didn't dare interrupt him as he cried, "_Reverto._ _Reverto suus pessimus hostilis... Angelus!"_

Once again, vampire and demon were forcibly separated by a bright green light tearing into the room. As Harmony crashed against the wall, she found herself hoping that they had failed once again. That they _hadn't_ succeeded in bringing back the ultimate weapon against Spike. Because while she wasn't afraid of their weapon, she suddenly found herself being worried what the Powers That Be would do. It _always_ seemed as though those stupid Powers found some way to punish the really bad things, and she didn't know if she could make a wish to undo everything in time to avoid punishment. For once in her life, Harmony Kendall was actually thinking. Unfortunately, her debut at reason came a bit too late. "It worked," Sadrahd murmured from across the room. "W-we finally did it."

Slowly rising to her feet, Harmony looked up at the man standing in the center of the room. Though he was no longer as battered and bruised as she last remembered him, he was wearing the same clothes he had worn on the night he died. Watching him glance around the room with sharp eyes, Harmony called, "A-... Angel?"

He turned his attention to her, and Harmony thought for a split second that Sadrahd was wrong, that they had indeed failed. Seeing the wide, malicious grin that surfaced on his face, though, Harmony's last hope went flying out the window.

"Don't be silly, kid," he replied. "It's Angelus, all the way."

* * *

"So you're saying there's a vamp out there that's trying to get me?" Marissa asked.

"No, no, no," Doyle quickly said, turning off the ignition once they settled in _Neon_'s parking lot. "No one said it's after you specifically. I mean, that'd imply that you've made some powerful enemies. All this means is that you'll happen to find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Gee, thanks," Marissa sarcastically stated, getting out of the car. "It's always nice to know that I'm just a hapless bystander. If it weren't for the fact that I happened to have met Spike, I'd be just another face in the crowd of these weird visions you get."

"Maybe," Doyle agreed with a smirk as he stood up. "But I would've taken a moment after the migraine passed and said, 'Wow, that was one _hell_ of a lovely face. I hope she lets me buy her a drink after I save her.'" Seeing Marissa roll her eyes, he followed along besides her and placed an arm around her shoulders. It was partly because he was always eager to cultivate a new relationship with a pretty girl, but it was also because, as he presently told her, "Gotta make sure that any bloodsuckers walking around know that you're not alone. It might discourage them."

"Oh, I'm sure," Marissa dryly stated, ducking out from under Doyle's arm. "And how many vamps have _you_ managed to scare off with your intrepid manliness?"

"Quite a few," Doyle remarked. Seeing her cynical glance, he shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. "All right, maybe only a handful or so. And maybe that all depends on how big your hands are. But the truth of the matter is, vampires are less likely to go for a victim if they know she's not alone. Unless, of course, he's a particularly twisted sort of vamp who loves a challenge...."

"All you're doing is making me wish I had offered to order us a pizza instead of come out here tonight," Marissa replied, crossing her arms over her chest and glancing around. "You said that these visions you get come from the Powers That Be. Why would the Powers That Be send you a premonition about me unless the vampire happens to be one of these particularly twisted sorts?"

Trying not to let on that he was thinking the same thing, Doyle stepped in front of her and opened the door to _Neon_, allowing her to enter first. "Or maybe you have a greater purpose, and the Powers don't want you getting yourself offed before you can go ahead and fulfill that purpose. Who knows what goes through the minds of those crazy Powers? All I know is, so long as we're in a public place and I don't leave you by your lonesome, you'll be safe and sound."

"I would've been safer at home," Marissa murmured.

"You mean the same home where this other vampire was able to waltz in because of a demon?"

"Point taken."

Satisfied with that, Doyle looked around at the dizzying sights of the club. Though it took him a moment for his eyes to adjust, he was comforted by the idea that it was unlikely that any vamp would spend a particularly long amount of time sitting in _Neon_ and waiting for prey. The blinking, bright lights and the erratic décor were likely to get on the nerves of anyone with the heightened senses of the undead. That is, unless the vampire in question decided to sit in one of the dark corners of the large main room, which is where Doyle caught sight of several shadowy figures.

With a gulp, he put a hand on Marissa's back and gently pushed her towards the bar. "C'mon. I'll get you a drink of something that'll make me seem like the gallant hero I'm trying to be."

Spotting something by the bar, Marissa pulled away from Doyle. "Er, no thanks. I mean, thanks, but... I don't drink."

"You don't?" Doyle asked, as though the idea was utterly foreign to him. "Why not?"

As though it were common sense, she replied, "I'm nineteen."

It took Doyle a long moment, but he made a sound of realization as he nodded. "Ah, and you're still too young to legally imbibe in this country, eh? Rotten luck. Well, if you promise to sit where I can see you, I'll bring you something light and fizzy so long as you promise not to snitch."

Rubbing the back of her neck, Marissa awkwardly brought up, "Actually, the only light and fizzy thing I'll drink is Sprite. I'm just not much for alcohol. But, uh, I don't mind getting a seat in the middle of everything, if that's all the same to you."

"I don't think we should be splitting up if there's no reason to," Doyle told her. Seeing her backing up, he asked, "Hey, is something wrong?"

"Can we go?" Marissa asked.

"Marissa," greeted a female voice from behind Doyle. Turning around, he saw a tired redheaded girl making her way towards them. She gave him a passing glance before turning her attention back to Marissa. "Hey. Oz called Robbie and he gave me a rundown of what's happening. We're all keeping an eye out for you." To Doyle, she said, "I'm Violet. You must be Doyle, right?"

"Yeah, that's me," he affirmed.

"Oh, look!" Marissa blurted out, looking behind Violet. "Celia's here! I haven't talked to Celia all semester. I'm going to go talk to Celia." Looking at Doyle, she stated, "You can get our drinks, and you just find me. Over there. With Celia. Okay?"

Doyle didn't have a chance to respond before Marissa quickly walked off towards a blonde girl talking on her cell phone. Blinking at Violet, he noticed that the redhead was staring at him blankly. After a moment, she proclaimed, "She doesn't like demons. You know that, right?"

Surprised by the seemingly random question, Doyle replied, "Y-yeah. I've heard."

"She doesn't know you're a mix, does she?"

"No," he answered. "How did you-"

"Besides glamour, the Sight's the only ability that comes natural to me," Violet replied. "Don't worry, I won't tell. It's best that there's at least _one_ of us around that she can look at without automatically cringing. You go get your drinks. I was just finishing up mine, so I'll call Oz on my way out and let him know that the two of you are here."

Doyle watched as the girl headed back to the table at which she had been sitting. When this night was over, he was going to sit down with Oz and have a long, _long_ talk with him about all of the weird shenanigans going on in this town. "O-... okay. Sure. Whatever you say." With one last glance at Marissa, he headed to the bar to order.

"Celia!" Marissa called with a wave. "Hey!" Seeing her former classmate speaking heatedly into her phone and holding up a hand to tell her to wait a moment, Marissa looked throughout _Neon_. While she wouldn't label Violet as her enemy, it was still way too soon to do the small talk thing. Finding out that someone you didn't like all that much to begin with wasn't even _human_ had a way of making social pleasantries a near impossibility. As such, Celia Levine seemed like the easiest person to direct her attention on to get her out of a tight spot with Violet.

At length, the blonde girl tossed her phone on the table and groaned. "So yeah," she sighed, not even bothering to give Marissa a proper greeting. "Mike is a complete and total douche. He called me over here to 'talk things out' or whatever, and he bails on me. Not only does he bail on me, but he decides to shut off his phone and throw it into the Pacific or something. I called just about every person I've ever seen make eye contact with him, and he's just disappeared off the face of the planet. Seriously, I'm about two minutes away from going off with the next available guy that sidles up next to me."

"Funny," Marissa remarked, sitting down at the table and taking her bag off, laying it on the floor. "I would have thought that this experience would make you _less_ apt to go off with strange men. It never seems to work, unless you're going for the whole stereotypical horror movie thing."

"You're a sad, morbid person, Marissa," Celia replied, giving her a strange glare. "I mean, considering the whole S-dale thing, I guess no one can really blame you. But you've seriously _got_ to get your head out of Wes Craven Land, okay? Why don't you make up with Robbie? He seemed like the most well-adjusted thing about you until the big break-up."

"Saying that Robbie is well-adjusted is like saying that stupid people need to breed quickly and frequently," Marissa retorted bitterly. "Rob's got his issues, Celia. We _all_ do. Maybe some of us just don't need to attach ourselves to the first available hunk that bumps into us in the middle of-"

She cut herself off when someone bumped into her from behind. "Sorry," said an unfamiliar voice. Placing a gentle hand on her back as though to steady her, he repeated, "Sorry. I guess I'm something of a-... oh! Celia! Hi there!"

Marissa looked behind her and saw a tall, good-looking brunette smiling amicably at Celia. She had never seen him before, but she gathered that Celia's prospects weren't limited to the local guys. She was probably quite a connoisseur when it came to single males.

"Oh," Celia said uncertainly. Judging by the look on her face, Marissa gathered that the name was probably escaping her. "Hi! Yeah, uh... you know Marissa Harris, right?" Marissa smirked at Celia's rather smooth play even as the guy turned his dark eyes to her.

"I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure," he said, offering her his hand. Smiling as her own warm hand was encircled by his cool grip, Marissa wondered over just _how_ many guys Celia had fooled around with if she could allow someone as attractive as this one to escape her memory. "Most people call me Angel, but I'd like to think that name should be reserved for the more pure-at-heart, don't you?"

"I'll take your word for it," Marissa replied.

To Celia, Angel said, "I was hoping I'd run into you sometime soon. There was something I needed to ask you." With an apparently uncomfortable glance over at Marissa, he added, "It was somewhat _private_, so maybe if we head on outside...?"

"Oh, yeah!" Celia proclaimed eagerly, grabbing her bag and already jumping to her feet. "No problem! You don't mind, right Mare?" Without waiting for an answer, she looped her arm in Angel's and grinned. "Let's go! Privacy awaits!"

Marissa watched as Celia went off with the tall, dark, and handsome stranger, feeling a little odd when Angel shot her a knowing glance and a smirk before they left the club. There was something off about that guy, but considering that she had been spending so much of her time with werewolves, faeries, and time-displaced vampires, she was probably just seeing gremlins at every corner.

That idea was only cemented when she jumped at Doyle's arrival. "Hey," he said calmly, putting a Sprite and a Heineken on the table. "I thought you were off being simultaneously avoidant and social. Don't tell me the little paradox didn't work out for you?"

"Hardly," she answered, unwrapping the straw that Doyle handed to her as he sat down. "Celia went off with a creature possessing a Y chromosome, so I hardly stood a chance. Nice girl, but a little too friendly."

"Really?" Doyle asked after a sip of his beer. "What a complete and utter lack of class! Is she over eighteen and do you have a phone number for her?"

Snickering, Marissa put her straw in her soda and remarked, "Well, I'll say one thing for you. At least that comment proves that you're your average, everyday human male." Taking a drink, she didn't see Doyle lower his eyes at her statement.

"Well," Doyle said after a moment. "Here we are, just the two of us in a club that would make _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_ seem boring and monochromatic. Since I've yet to receive any word from our fearless sentinels that they've caught the big bad vamp I spied in my vision, I say that this is as good a time as any to spend getting to know one another better."

"Why's that?" Marissa asked. "Because you never know if that vamp will actually manage to snatch me away despite your best efforts, and one or both of us might die before you decide whether or not you want to actually ask me on a date or something?"

"You're one darn cynical lady, I'll tell you that," Doyle remarked wryly. "Besides, a little death's nothing to be afraid of."

"Says the man that was brought back from the dead," Marissa observed.

"Well, it's hard to fear death when you've been there and done that," he replied. "I'm sure Spike's taken some pretty wild risks since he's been around, too." With a shrug, he continued quietly, "Death just means that the Powers ran out of a use for you. The thing about the good old PTB is that they can never decide whether or not that's their final answer. Makes it hard to rest in peace when you can be brought back at someone's slightest whim."

"I'm guessing that's how Buffy felt," Marissa said thoughtfully.

Doyle glanced up at Marissa as she lowered her eyes. He didn't know much about the Slayer other than what he had managed to see in a couple of visions and from a brief encounter with her, but he knew enough to be certain that whatever it was that had taken her down for the count must have been _epic_. He figured that she had probably nearly welcomed death by that point, and whatever it was that brought her back must have been like a slap in the face, to put it mildly. Great warriors should never have to awaken from their final slumber.

"Probably," he agreed at length. "But whatever it is she's doing now, I'm guessing she realizes that the world's all the better for her being up and kicking. Besides, from what I hear, she's got your cousin looking out for her, so it's clear-"

He was interrupted by the sudden sound of an unfamiliar song, followed by a vibration against the table. His eyes went to see the pink cell phone by Marissa, and a glance at her told him that this wasn't her phone.

"Damn," she muttered, picking the gadget up in her hand and looking at the number. "Celia must've left it, and I don't know when I'll see her again." She glanced around _Neon_ to be sure that Celia and her new boy toy hadn't stayed behind. "Might as well tell whoever it is that I have it so she won't freak out, right?"

"Oh, be honest," Doyle joked. "You'd just rather talk to one of her castoffs than to me."

"You read through my code," she replied sarcastically. Answering the call, she put the phone to her ear and said, "Hello? ... Celia? Oh.... Oh, okay. Sure. Where...? .... Uh-huh. No problem. I'll be right out." Seeing Doyle's concerned expression as she ended the call, Marissa stood up and shook her head. "Celia's in the guy's car just outside. I'm just going to hand off the phone."

"With a chaperone, you are!" Doyle exclaimed.

Even as he tried to rise to his feet, Marissa put a hand on his shoulder and sat him back down again. "No, because I'm just going around the front. There are people there. Lots of people. I'm not going to pull a 'Me and My Shadow' with you until your little supernatural friends decide to give you a ring."

Before Doyle could joke that they weren't at that stage in the relationship in which they'd talk about exchanging rings, Marissa turned around and headed for the door. She knew that he had a point and probably only had the best intentions in mind, but she wasn't the type to do the cowering-in-the-corner bit just because some guy she never saw before claims that she's in danger. She was going just outside. In the front. With a lot of people. There was no harm in that.

Except that there _weren't_ a lot of people outside. Zipping up the hooded sweatshirt that she had thrown over her tank top, Marissa glanced around. It was fairly late on a Wednesday night, so there was really no reason to assume that there'd be a large gathering of people hanging out at _Neon_. Worse yet, she didn't see a car out in the front.

"Marissa, right?" Marissa turned at the sound of Angel's voice. He was standing at the corner, hanging around as though waiting within view of Celia. Huddled in his black trench coat, he called, "Celia's freezing, so she asked me to come out and meet you."

"Where is she?" Marissa asked suspiciously.

Nudging his head around the side of _Neon_, Angel replied, "I'm parked just around the corner." Shivering, he remarked, "Boy, it's nippy tonight, isn't it? Toss me the phone so I can dash back in to where it's warm."

Seeing him take his hands out of his pockets to catch the cell phone, Marissa's suspicions eased up a bit. Since he wasn't asking her to bridge the distance between them, it was clear that he had no notions of dragging her into the darkness and doing horrific things to her. Regardless, she habitually put her free hand in her pocket and grabbed for her mace as she ambled towards him. "Yeah right," she said. "And if I break the phone, I've got to hear Celia's mouth go off on me? No thanks, I'd rather hand it over."

"Confess," Angel smirked. "It's just my animal magnetism."

"You guys sure have a way of reading my signals all wrong," she responded good-naturedly.

She was about six feet away from him when she heard someone call her name from behind her. Turning, she saw that Violet had stepped out of the club and was gaping at her concernedly. Automatically wincing, Marissa edged closer to Angel. "Marissa, get away," Violet told her. "Marissa!"

"Friend of yours?" Angel asked, his humor gone.

"Not really," Marissa replied.

Desperately, Violet quickly cried out, "_D'aithne a ligean le duine_!"

Once again, Marissa found herself blinking in the bright white light caused by the reveal spell. The last time Violet had uttered those words, it was to prove to Marissa that the werewolf she had been so afraid of was actually Robbie. What would make her use that spell now...?

Whirling around to look at Angel, Marissa shrieked when she saw the almost flawlessly handsome features replaced by a horrific vamp-face. Momentarily perplexed, Angel soon realized what had happened and growled at Violet before swiftly turning to make his move on Marissa. She didn't even have the time to get her mace out of her pocket before she was grabbed about the throat.

"What's the matter, little girl?" As he asked the question, the vampire lifted Marissa off her feet and slammed her against the brick wall of _Neon_. "Just five seconds ago, you were all hot for me. I could smell it off you just like I could sense it off of that little tramp I picked off around the corner."

"Put her down!" Despite the wrath she tried to instill in her voice, Violet hung back. There wasn't really much that she could do. She wasn't strong enough to face off with a vampire, especially not one that was clearly as dangerous as this one was. And with her true face showing, she couldn't very well run back into _Neon_ and get help. Still, if this vampire could see her for what she was, maybe she could still try to intimidate it. "Let go of her or I'll make you wish you had stayed in your grave when your sire drained you dry."

Offering the faerie a wry glance as the teenaged girl in his grip clawed helplessly at him, he grinned at her and queried, "Really? How exactly are you going to do that? Make me stare into your ugly face until I want to scratch my own eyes out? Or maybe you've got some more tricks from the home country up your sleeve? I come from the same place as you, leprechaun, so it's not likely you're able to do much that'll surprise me."

"How about me?"

The vampire spun around at the accented voice that stirred a distant memory at the back of his mind. From around the corner emerged Doyle, his green eyes staring at him grimly as he cocked a gun at him. "Put her down, Angel," the half-demon commanded. "This is hard enough as it is."

Confused for only a moment before letting out a rich, hearty laugh, the vamp shook his head. "Doyle, Doyle, Doyle. I _thought_ it was you walking in with her. I just couldn't believe that anyone would find much of a use for you and bother to bring you back. Let me guess: you're a stoolie for Spike, huh?" He chuckled again before mentioning, "That little prick always _did_ go after anything that Angel tossed aside. And, just in case you couldn't tell, it's Angelus. _Not_ Angel. Angel's little soul is still fast asleep in the great beyond. Would that whiny piss pot have the balls to do _this_?"

With that, he tossed Marissa towards Violet, sending her flying and landing hard on top of the weakened faerie. His hands free, Angelus ducked beneath Doyle's gun and slammed the man's hand against the wall, crushing the fingers and breaking his hand. Doyle bit back a scream and sent a clumsy punch towards Angelus' face, but missed. Grabbing the fist, Angelus pulled at Doyle hard enough to nearly dislocate his shoulder, if he hadn't pivoted his body to avoid such a fate. Even so, gravity worked against him and Doyle found himself landing hard against the pavement, cradling his injured hand.

Chuckling once more, Angelus shook his head as he stared down at Doyle. "You see, _that's_ why people shouldn't play with guns. Maybe one day, when you're a grown boy, you'll know better. But for now, just be happy that I've got prior arrangements with the girl and my tight schedule limits the amount of time I can spend disciplining you."

Crouching down besides him, Angelus grabbed a fistful of Doyle's black hair and whispered in his ear, "But don't worry. I'll make sure to spank her once or twice for you. Who knows; she might even learn to like it." Popping back up to his feet, he gave Doyle a deft kick in the ribs to discourage any immediate chase and turned back to look at the girls.

It looked like the Sidhe was down for the count, as he had expected. Marissa was just scrambling to her feet and no doubt was taking it to mind to hide away in _Neon_ and count on the safety in numbers. At least she wasn't going to try and beat her fists against his chest in reprimand for beating up on her friends. It looked like Angelus finally met up with a self-serving human instead of one of these annoying hero wannabes. He was going to have fun with her.

He easily caught up with her before she could even figure out which direction to run to, his hand pulling at the hood of her sweatshirt and yanking at her, producing a satisfying gurgling sound from her throat. "Hey, you can't go running out on me just yet. Celia didn't even last thirty seconds; I like my girls with a little bit of stamina." Seeing her fumbling for something in her pocket, he pulled her hand out and saw the mace that fell and clattered to the ground. "Ooh, that would've hurt, princess. Looks like I'm going to have to frisk you."

Clamping his hand down on her mouth just before she let out a scream, Angelus quickly dragged her around the corner. As he had told her earlier, his car was indeed parked in the side alley. He neglected to mention the body of Celia that they'd have to step on to get there. Feeling her shuddering and struggling in his iron grasp, Angelus grinned as he suddenly slammed her head against the roof of the Toyota he had managed to rig upon receiving the game plan from Sadrahd. Feeling her go limp in his arms, he whistled a merry tune as he set about getting her settled in the passenger seat.

When he saw the tears streaking her face, he knew that "fun" was going to be an understatement.

* * *

"All right, I think I'm through for the night."

Spike looked at Oz as he yawned. Raising an eyebrow, he sarcastically asked, "What, the great big Wolfman hasn't got the staying power to pull an all-nighter while we search for one measly vamp? Lon Chaney Jr. would be ashamed."

"I'm sure he's turning over in his grave right now," Oz replied, headed towards the direction of Jordy's house. "It still doesn't change the fact that I'm mostly just your average human, and I'm drained. After seeing the ghost of Uncle Ken, facing off Harmony and her new vengeance demon boyfriend, and encountering yet _another_ person who's back from the dead-not to mention dealing with the possibility that I might actually have to play an important part in a conflict culminating in the _final_ final battle between good and evil-and you've got one werewolf who's ready for bed."

Following after Oz, Spike groaned, "I suppose I can't rightfully blame you. Looking for one vamp in Woodridge is like searching for a virgin at an all-boys school; you know you'll stumble across plenty, but no one's likely to advertise it." After a moment, he asked in an irritated tone, "One would think that Irish would be able to give us more details than simply 'a master vampire,' yeah? So we've got similar features when we're in fight mode; doesn't mean he couldn't point out whether it was blond or brunette or tall or fat or Hispanic or whatnot."

"Would that really make a difference?" Oz asked tiredly.

"Damned right it would!" Spike exclaimed. "I've got contacts; I could ask around. If this guy's been in town for more than a couple of days, someone would've heard of him. You go around asking for a master vampire, and these lesser demons get all flustered, knowing you've got some important business with 'em. But if you just start off by asking casual-like questions, you're more likely to get some information out of these gits."

"It would be horribly ironic if you happened to know this because you used to _be_ one of these 'gits,'" Oz remarked. Seeing Spike's glower, Oz smirked and was about to make another comment when his cell phone rang. Digging it out of his jacket pocket, he mentioned, "Maybe it's Doyle."

"What _did_ the Scoobies do before mobiles came into popular use?" Spike asked sardonically.

"It was a chaotic system involving Post-It notes and those plastic letter magnets," Oz replied. Picking up his phone, he said, "Hello? ...Hey Doyle.... You, uh, don't sound okay. Did something...? ...Oh. ...Uh-huh. ...Uh-huh. ... Well, that's unfortunate. ...Uh-huh. ...Uh-huh. ...Yeah, I'll tell him. Bye." Putting the phone back in his pocket, Oz rubbed his eyes and muttered, "So much for bedtime."

"I take it Doyle had a little run-in with this master vamp?"

"We need to pick him up at the hospital."

"At the _what_?"

"You heard me," Oz told him. "We'll take my van."

"Well, at least it's just outpatient-type work if he's cleared to leave, yeah?" Spike asked, following as Oz quickened his pace. "He _is_ cleared to leave, right? Or is he just visiting the pup? Don't tell me she got herself knocked about while on his watch. Exactly what kind of vamp are we dealing with here?"

"I think it's best to wait until you're sitting down for me to tell you."

* * *

Spike and Oz found Doyle sitting in the outpatient waiting room, his hand in a cast and looking decidedly somber.

Looking up to see the vampire and werewolf approaching, Doyle rose to his feet and met them halfway. Noting their gazes to his hand, he shook his head and shrugged. "Not as bad as it all looks, really. You should see my chest. Looks like a side of raw beef, and all he did was give it a little kick." To Spike, he added, "I'm assuming Oz mentioned who it is that's been wrenched from yet another hell dimension once again?"

After a moment, Spike's blue eyes met Doyle's green ones, and he resolutely said, "We're going to get the pup back, stake that son of a bitch, and then we're going learn whether or not Harmony and her new beau have anything to do with this. If they do, we're going to tie them up and make them swallow shards of glass until their throats are torn to shreds."

"Yeah," Oz answered ineffectually. "I told him."

Nodding, Doyle's normally-cheery face was as somber as Spike's. "I didn't think I'd come to agree with you so soon, but I'm with you on this plan. Especially the part about staking him and not making with the torture. Bringing Angel back would warrant a parade down Main Street and a few celebratory jigs. With Angelus, we don't want him up and kicking for a moment longer than he needs to be. Quite literal on the kicking bit, too."

"He couldn't just come after me, either," Spike muttered. "That just never _was_ Angelus' way. It was how he drove Drusilla over the edge, back when she was still human. Killed her family, stalked her endlessly without doing direct damage to her, and drove her mad. I don't know if he's aiming on getting me to meet my end or trying to make me lose my soul, but I'll be damned if I give that gloating bastard what he's after, especially if that brick Harmony's behind this."

"He's already got what he's after," Doyle told him. "He was pretty specific about having come for a hostage, and he left me and Violet behind with hardly a second glance. Judging by the body I tripped over when I crept outside the club, it looks like he's fed already, so he won't be finishing Marissa off quick. I don't know what kind of game this Harmony girl's playing if she meant to summon him, but she and this demon I've been hearing about must have got a pretty specific plan laid out. This early in the game, Marissa could be just a pawn or even a distraction. Who really knows?"

"All we do know," Oz brought up, "is that she's probably going through hell right about now."

* * *

When Marissa slowly opened her eyes, she heard someone singing a hauntingly familiar song somewhere behind her.

Her head was throbbing, but even with the dazed headache, she could discern a few of the lyrics. "On a sidewalk one Sunday morning lies a body, oozing life. Someone's creeping 'round that corner. Could that someone be Mack the Knife?" As she recognized the song as the eerily cheery tune covered by everyone from Frank Sinatra to Michael Buble, she felt a strange sensation combing through her hair.

Shaking her head, she tensed up as someone placed large hands on either side of her face, immobilizing her. "Don't move," ordered the voice that had been singing. "It's bad enough that your hair's impossible to work with, but now you're going to mess things up before they need to be?"

She tried to open her mouth, but found that she couldn't. Duct tape, mostly likely. Shrugging her shoulders, she was able to ascertain that she was seated in a chair, her hands tied behind her back and her legs bound by a thin rope. Glancing around the dark room, she didn't see much that would enlighten her as to her location. Judging by the blank gray walls and the single dim light bulb hanging bare from the ceiling, she could be anywhere from an abandoned warehouse to the Batcave. Somehow, she didn't think the latter was the case.

Angelus walked out from around her and looked down at her. After scrutinizing her for a moment, he shrugged and stated, "Oh well. It's just going to get messy again anyway. I just thought you'd want them to see your best angle." Crouching down on the floor, he picked up the pink cell phone that had gotten Marissa in this mess in the first place and flipped it open, flicking through the menu as he continued to speak.

"You know, one of the _many_ differences between me and Angel was that he had this _horrible_ sense of technophobia. If it was new, he wanted nothing to do with it. Hell, if he had his way, he'd be rescuing damsels in distress on horseback. Or maybe not; he liked his car. _I_ liked his car, too. It was just about the only thing we could both really agree on. Well that and that Cordy girl. God, I was just waiting for him to give her a go and let me have some fun. But no, the Powers That Be did it again!"

Looking up at Marissa, he grinned and said, "But I'm digressing. Back to the technophobia bit, this rube couldn't even figure out how to use a cell phone. I mean, when phones first got call waiting, he was a confused mess, so you can imagine what he must have been like when these little mobile communicators started popping up everywhere. If he were around now, when these things aren't even used for making phone calls anymore, the poor sap would just be a complete nutcase. Not me. I embrace the technical advances of the future. It's a sign that I _want_ to live forever. I mean, see right here? Think of how much time it must've taken me to get this perfect shot."

With that, he showed her the screen on the phone. Though she needed to squint to get used to the comparative brightness and the small image, she eventually recognized it for what it was. Her. He had taken a picture of her while she was unconscious, with the duct tape over her mouth and her head drooped down on her chest. She saw what looked like a very messy red gash just beneath her hairline, but he took the phone away before she could see for certain.

Still playing with the features, he mentioned, "And did you know these things have e-mail now? Man, I kick it for a couple of years, and the world completely changes on me. What's unfortunate is that all the people that I'd really like to e-mail are either dead or don't have a computer of their own. Fortunately, my new friend Sadrahd did manage to hook me up with a couple of phone numbers that I could send picture mail to, among other things. Do you think Robbie would like this picture?" He showed her an image similar to the previous one, only this one included him with his cheek pressed against hers, his wide grin revealing just how much fun he was having playing with the camera phone.

"I've got a number for Oz, too," Angelus continued as he rose to his feet and disappeared behind her. "From what I hear, he's like Spike's second-in-command. Real cute, how Spike went and got himself Buffy _and_ a soul _and_ his own group of superheroes. I think the poor kid has some daddy issues. Never fear, though." Emerging from behind her with a digital camcorder set atop of a tripod, he began setting it up in front of her as he mentioned, "By the time we're through here, he's going to have a lot more issues weighing on his mind. And since I'd hate for you to feel left out, I'll make sure to build up some psychoses for _you_, too."

Glancing up at her, he seemed to notice something about Marissa that bothered him. "You're so quiet. More so than the gagging would lead me to believe, I mean. Oh, I get it. I've seen this before. You're in shock. It's as though you're seeing all this from a distance; your brain's trying to tell you that this isn't really happening to you. Well, that won't do at all. Because, you see, I _want_ this to be happening to you. And not just me. A number of people are counting on your performance here tonight, Marissa. So while I know the camera's intimidating, just try to relax and act natural."

Finally turning on the camera, Angelus stepped in front of it and casually walked over to Marissa, smiling innocently as she tried to arch away from him. "I heard a funny thing not too long ago. I heard you're Xander Harris' cousin." With a sharp intake of breath as though in a disappointed hiss, he remarked, "Xander and I never got along. He seems to have this problem with me hurting people he cares about. He likes coming to their rescue, despite the fact that he knows I'll wipe the floor with his stupid ass time and again. Do you think he'll come to _your_ rescue, Marissa? Because really, I think foolish hope is so darn adorable."

Bending down besides her, his voice was grotesquely kind as he said, "Now, I'm going to get rid of that tape covering your mouth, but only on one condition, okay?" After a moment, he smirked and told her, "You have to promise me you'll scream. Because, quite frankly, if you don't reward me with a few screams after everything I'm going to put you through, it's going to make this seem like a thankless job."

When he reached over and sharply yanked the duct tape from her mouth, Marissa didn't have a choice but to comply with his request.

* * *

Violet opened her eyes when Spike, Oz, and Doyle sped into her apartment.

"Invite a vampire in once," she murmured, sitting up on her sofa, "and he thinks he can just waltz right in whenever there's a crisis. And he brings along some friends. Typical." Seeing Robbie come in after them and close the door behind him, her humor fell away. "Oh. So this is an official meeting of Monsters Anonymous, huh?"

"Can you find them?" Spike asked sternly.

"How are you?" Robbie queried.

Mildly amused, Violet asked, "Which question should I answer first?"

"The important one," Spike broke in. "Unless you'd like to wake up and find pieces of the pup's skin taped to your window in the morning, we can't afford to waste time. You and Doyle are still coherent and in one piece, so that's well enough for now. If Hercules needs to cart you around outside so you can try your hand at a locator spell, so be it."

"I can't do _any_ spells," Violet explained, slowly getting up from the sofa. Robbie rushed past the others to help her up as she continued, "I'm done. Spent. I synched up with that demon earlier tonight, and I used a reveal spell. On top of _that_, I get Marissa thrown on top of _me_. I'm lucky I didn't have to end up in the hospital myself."

That said, she turned her eyes to look at Doyle, meaning to ask him how he was doing. Before she could say anything, Spike turned on his heels and pushed Doyle and Oz out the door. "Fine. We've wasted enough time as it is. Hercules, pack up. We're going to see if we can find any magic shops open at this hour."

"You guys go ahead," Robbie told them, an arm around Violet. "If this Angelus guy tries to go for any of us, I don't think Violet should be alone like this. If she feels better and thinks of any books or anything that she has that can help us out, I'll call you guys."

"You kids and your logic," Oz murmured as the three of them headed out.

Looking to Violet, Robbie helped her sit back down and asked again, "So, how _are_ you? From what I've heard about this Angelus guy, you and Doyle are lucky to have been left alive." His eyes went downcast as he thought about what that meant for Marissa.

She didn't need the ability to read auras to be able to tell what was going through Robbie's mind. "He's not going to kill her. At this point, though, I don't know if that's a good or bad thing. He's bad, Robbie. I did a search on him on the Internet before I collapsed on the couch. In his heyday, Angelus could make Leatherface and Jigsaw look like Laurel and Hardy."

"That's bad, right?"

"Would you rather I say he makes Pyramidhead look like Charlie Chaplin?"

"Your references aren't really doing much to comfort me," Robbie said forlornly as he sat besides her. "I'm now torn between wanting to watch one of the _Saw _movies and hoping that Angelus doesn't have the resources to put Marissa into one of those traps, and wanting to watch a black-and-white movie of when life was simple."

After a moment of silence, Violet looked at Robbie blankly and asked, "Life was simple?"

* * *

A werewolf, vampire, and a half-demon rode in Oz's van in quiet contemplation.

Oz remembered the first time Angelus had been accidentally released from Angel. He thought back to the shocked horror when Jenny Calendar had been murdered just because she was trying to restore Angel's soul. What bothered him most about that experience was watching Giles' reaction to losing the woman that he had been slowly falling for. Watching a grown man cry was one thing; when this man happened to be someone that you had a quiet respect and admiration for, it was another thing altogether.

He wondered if history was going to repeat itself. Xander's family was colorful and complex, as he had so jokingly mentioned throughout his high school years. From what he had managed to tell Oz before he left back to Europe, Marissa was the only one of the lot that had the good fortune of being labeled "normal," and it was clear that Xander felt a deep affection for her. If word got back to Xander that Angelus had captured Marissa-or, worse yet, that Marissa had been brutally murdered-what kind of an effect would that have on Xander? Would he break down into heart wrenching sobs as Giles had done when it finally sunk in that Jenny was gone, or would he become just a little more hollow after the deaths of so many other people he had cared about? Oz didn't know which result would be worse.

Spike was the only one of the present company to have actually fought alongside both Angel _and_ Angelus. Back when he was still soulless, Spike had always tried and failed to be half the vampire Angelus was. True, he had hid the sentiment behind decades of scorn and ridicule, but he couldn't deny that anything that dared call itself evil would be a blind idiot _not_ to look up to Angelus. To this day, Spike couldn't hear the song "Sympathy for the Devil" without thinking back to the vampire that had taught him all he needed to know about being a merciless killer.

With that in mind, it was with a grim sort of determination that he decided that _he_ would be the one to put the stake through Angelus' heart no matter what. After witnessing the kind of man Angel had managed to become despite his past, Angelus signified nothing more but the slipping of a conscience. He served as a reminder that the redeemed aren't always granted eternal peace, and that even a good man can go bad. He symbolized everything that Spike feared he could never run away from. He _needed_ to be put down.

Of the three of them, Doyle was the only one who had never had a direct confrontation with Angelus prior to that night. He had seen bits and pieces of Angel's past through various visions when the Powers were first introducing him to the idea of helping out the ensouled vampire, but in terms of facing down what some demonologists believed to be the most vicious vampire in history, Doyle had always been glad to say that he was quite inexperienced.

Now, though, it was that very inexperience that he silently cursed as he glared down at the cast on his hand. If he hadn't been so taken aback by seeing Angel's vamp-face-a face he had only ever seen when the vampire used to protect him or somebody they cared about-Doyle would have probably been able to prevent this entire mess. He would have shot Angelus while he had had the element of surprise working for him, and he could have grabbed Marissa, shoved her back into _Neon_, and hit Angelus with everything he had. With his weaponry and his advanced abilities from his demon half, he might have at least been able to keep Angelus from abducting the girl. Just a few hours after becoming a warrior for the Powers That Be once again, and he already managed to fail them.

The heavy silence in the van was broken when a series of beeps sounded from Oz's pocket. At first confused, Oz removed one hand from the wheel and reached into his jacket, withdrawing his cell phone. A glance at the display screen told him that he had a message, and it wasn't from a familiar number. "That's strange," Oz murmured as he set about retrieving the message. "Picture mail. Who'd send me-?"

Spike had to keep himself from toppling over the dashboard when Oz braked sharply. Gaping at the younger man incredulously, he barked, "Maybe that's why there are laws against driving and cell phone usage!" After seeing that there were no other cars in the street, he looked at Oz a little more carefully. The werewolf was showing an actual emotion. Spike didn't like that. He didn't like it at all. "Please tell me it's something simple, like unsolicited porn."

Oz said nothing for a long time, then finally handed the phone to Spike and continued driving in silence. Doyle leaned over from the back, peering over Spike's shoulder at the picture. Both of them clenched their jaws in reaction to the image of a bruised and unconscious Marissa bound to a chair. Underneath the image was typed the message, "You might wanna check your e-mail."

No one needed to ask Oz where he was going. Within five minutes, his van was parked in Jordy's driveway and the three of them were in the basement, waiting for the family computer to boot up. For Angelus to have gotten Oz's number and e-mail address, he _had_ to have had an accomplice. This only solidified their feeling that Harmony and Sadrahd were somehow behind his appearance. Each of the men silently vowed that Spike's earlier threat about making them swallow glass wouldn't be too far off.

When Oz finally managed to access his e-mail, it didn't take him long to find what he was supposed to be looking for. A message from someone calling himself Angelus01 had a subject line proclaiming, "For torture spam, click here!"

Seeing that the message had a downloadable attachment, Oz hesitated before opening it. "I don't want to know, do I? He really _is_ the kind of sick bastard who'd take pictures every step of the way, so why should I-?"

"Because he sent it," Spike replied coldly. "He's counting on one of two things. Either we'll look at what he sent and get sick to our stomachs, or we'll ignore the e-mail and it'll turn out that he included some pertinent piece of information in it. Either way is a victory for him, especially since he already had his fun. Since I've seen Angelus at work and don't really care a lick about the pup, I've got nothing against sitting in your place and giving everything a look over. If you two sissies are gonna claim you get squeamish at the sight of a little torture, you'd be better off in bed with a teddy bear."

While Spike wasn't wholly truthful about not caring about Marissa, he was otherwise right. She was just a person. A person who was probably getting herself tortured all because of him. The guilt would be there regardless of who was in her place, so it didn't matter if it was Marissa or the Pope tied to a chair and getting flayed alive. He'd look at the pictures, he'd swallow the guilt, and he'd hope that Angelus had planted a picture of a matchbox with a telling address on it.

Reluctantly, it seemed, Oz finally double-clicked on the e-mail and hit the download link. Seeing his discomfort, Doyle looked at Oz and asked, "What's wrong?"

"It's not pictures," Oz replied. "It's a video. He sent a video."

The three of them watched as the file transfer took place, each of them almost hoping that the video wouldn't be compatible with the computer or just wouldn't play properly. Still images were one thing, but video... that was something else altogether. It wasn't just seeing her in pain; it was _hearing_ her. And if Spike knew Angelus, it was likely that Marissa was definitely going to be heard.

_"I heard a funny thing not too long ago. I heard you're Xander Harris' cousin."_ It wasn't long after Angelus' opening statement that he wrenched the tape away from the girl's mouth, inciting the scream that the three revolted viewers anticipated. _"Good,"_ Angelus congratulated her after she cried out. _"You've got a nice voice there. Hits a really sweet pitch. Did you ever audition for American Idol?"_

"I'll kill him," Doyle mumbled.

"Not if I get to him first," Spike growled.

"Should we draw straws?" Oz asked.

_"The trouble is,"_ Angelus continued, circling around Marissa, _"you're so... helpless. Now don't get me wrong; I like that in a woman. But if you look through my previous affairs, you'll notice that I tend to go for girls with a little bit of spunk. If I recall, that was something Spike and I always had in common."_ Looking directly at the camera, he grinned and added, _"Isn't that right, William?"_

Spike glowered at the infernally cocky face displayed on the monitor, made even more infuriating by the fact that he couldn't actually reach out and punch a hole through it. No doubt that this was what Angelus wanted. He'd rile Spike up enough to make him go on a kamikaze mission, and so long Mister Bloody Shanshu. There had to be more to it than that, but he was sure that was more or less the basic gist.

Crouching down besides Marissa, Angelus put a hand over the rope that bound her legs to the chair. _"But let's forget about the fact that Spike tends to go for my sloppy seconds. Let's instead make this a little more interesting."_ That said, he yanked the rope away. The movement both freed her legs and also caused the binds to bite into her flesh, given her yelp. _"How about it, baby? Wanna kick me in the face? Try to walk out of here? The legs contain the largest muscles in the human body, you know, so you can't just let this new advantage go to waste."_

_"Go to hell," _Marissa replied in a voice so low that Doyle almost didn't hear her.

_"The phrase 'been there, done that' readily springs to mind,"_ Angelus told her with a smirk. Placing a hand on her knee, he coaxed, _"Come on, lay it on me. Let's see what it is that makes you so special. Are you crazy like Dru? Or do you have Buffy's... stamina?"_

As he spoke, his hand went further up her thigh. With an involuntary shriek, she snapped her legs shut and did her best to arch away from him. With a surprised laugh, Angelus remarked, _"Well, _that_ sure got a reaction. How about it, folks? I think I'll take what's behind door number one!"_

When Angelus began grabbing at Marissa's sweatpants and trying to tug them off, Oz pushed his chair away from the desk and got up, turning away. "I can't watch this anymore." Hearing Marissa beginning to beg to be left alone, Doyle looked down and silently agreed with Oz's sentiment.

Only Spike continued staring into the screen, his arms crossed over his chest as his sharp eyes focused on every single detail in the scene. "Don't do that," he muttered to Marissa under his breath. "Begging's just gonna help get him off. You might as well be asking him to mount you."

"Hey, shut it snaggletooth, okay?" Doyle snapped sharply, glaring up at Spike. "The girl's in the process of being violated, and all you can do is make jokes about it?"

"Who's joking?" Spike shot back without looking at him. "I've been in his position before. Begging to be let alone, futile kicks to the shin, desperate tears? That's like Spanish fly when you're set on doing something like that." If he could blush, he would have flushed slightly as he remembered one of his final soulless acts in which he had tried to force himself on Buffy in her bathroom. Even though he had stopped himself before he could even begin, it was still no better than what Angelus was doing to this bound girl that he currently held hostage.

_"What's this?"_ Angelus suddenly asked, his hand having gone somewhere it shouldn't go. _"Huh, no wonder you're being a prude about necking on the first date. You're a virgin, aren't you?"_

Even as he heard Doyle's soft sound of disgust, all Spike found that he could think about was a remark he had made to Robbie upon first meeting him. He had said something about how Robbie could get into the girl's pants and still not know a simple fact about her, and Robbie had successfully avoided the comment. As tactless as it was, the only thing Spike could consider was, _Huh, guess he really never _did_ get in her pants._

_"You know,"_ Angelus realized, rising to his feet and walking behind the sobbing Marissa. _"This might just be even more fun than I had thought it'd be. I was gonna leave her in one or two pieces and let you good guys come in and clean up the mess, but now? Now I think I'll keep her for a bit. Not to go against the script or anything, but I've got the world to show her. And a little improv never hurt anybody. Well, at least it never hurt _me_."_

_"Spike is gonna kill you!"_ Marissa suddenly screamed. _"Spike and Robbie and Oz and Violet and Doyle! They'll kill you and send you back to where you came from, you sadistic asshole! And even if I'm not alive to see it, at least I'll see you in hell!"_

Blinking down at her in surprise, Angelus then grinned and stated, _"Well, another surprise."_ Throwing an arm around Marissa as though in a show of camaraderie, he told her, _"News flash, sweetheart: Spike can't kill me. He _is_ me. Everything he is, every little rise of bile in the back of your throat and every little secret tingle in your nether regions that he's probably inspired: _I_ taught him that. Spike can't kill me any more than he could stake Dru or drink Buffy's blood. That'd be a bit like killing himself. And the truth of the matter is, Spike's too much of a coward to kill himself."_ With another direct look into the camera, Angelus concluded, _"That's why he just sat there and watched Angel make that sacrifice, isn't it?"_

Spike was so beyond rage at this point that he was actually trembling. He knew Angelus. He knew him so well that what drove him crazy wasn't this web of lies that he was spinning. What drove him crazy was the fact that Angelus knew _him_ so well that these lies each had a seed of truth. Hell, maybe if he wasn't so proud, he'd even be able to concede that they _were_ the truth, every last bloody syllable.

With an infuriated snarl, Spike grabbed a heavy oval paperweight from the computer desk and hurled it across the room hard enough to crack the wall and send some plaster flying. The sound of the trinket slamming against the wall wasn't enough to block out the sounds of struggle coming from the computer, and Spike heatedly ran his hands through his hair as he tried to mentally block out the noise. "Shut it off," Spike scowled. "Pull the plug on that swaggering bugger."

Doyle jumped into Oz's abandoned seat. Whatever he did, he made the sound go away, and Spike found his head buzzing with a thousand questions. Where was Angel's soul? Was he still somewhere in there, deep within Angelus? Could he be saved? And would Spike _want_ to save him? After everything Angelus had done on the video and everything he would continue to do until he could be stopped, would Spike really want to drag Angel's soul out of there and have the elder vampire in hysterics as he remembered all the crimes his hands had committed? Did the world really need Angel that badly?

No. The world didn't need Angel. If it did, the Powers would've found a better way to bring him back; they wouldn't rely on an idiot vampire and her pet vengeance demon to force him back from the grave, especially sans soul. Spike had remembered that Darla had been brought back as a human, soul intact even if it _was_ a bit rusty from lack of use. Any magic that would bring back Angelus instead of Angel didn't come from the Powers That Be. It came from someplace much darker, much nastier. Quite possibly, it came from the same place that powered their current ghosts. That _would_ help explain why the ghost of Uncle Ken had claimed that this was all Spike's fault.

Spike turned his head to glare back at the computer monitor, expecting to find it blank. Instead, he saw that Doyle had figured out how to fast-forward through the video, narrowing his eyes as though searching for something. "What are you doing?" Spike asked him.

"You said so yourself," Doyle responded quietly. "There's a chance there's something important in here. Maybe Angel... Angelus, maybe he gets bored with her and offers to tell us where they are. Or provides some sort of clue. He's cocky and doesn't think there's any chance in hell that the three of us can beat him or do anything else but provide him with more fun. Even if it'd be walking right into a trap, at least it's better than not knowing anything and allowing this to continue."

"Or you can politely ask the Powers That Be to give you a head-cracking migraine," Oz brought up.

"There's only so much agony one man can take," Doyle replied with only the faintest edge of sarcasm in his voice.

Watching Doyle and Oz observe the high-speed images of a young girl going through something that no young girl should ever go through, Spike was at a loss. For all intents and purposes, the two of them were far more human than he was, and yet they had the stomach to watch through this mess with nothing more than a trace air of bitterness. It made Spike wonder if he was going soft or if the two of them had witnessed some particularly gruesome things since he last saw them.

Nearing the end of the video, Doyle hit the play button and conceded to watch through the last few seconds. Marissa was now unbound, bleeding, and in a state of undress, cowering in a corner after an unsuccessful attempt to hit Angelus with the chair. A good, solid hit in his chest from the wooden chair leg might have solved all their problems, and it seemed like Angelus was all too amused by the fact that she had actually tried to stake him with the very thing that he had used to keep her tied up.

_"-wrong about you,_" Angelus was saying. _"You've got a bit of spunk in you after all. You stop squirming for ten seconds, and that won't be all you've got in you, either."_ Turning to the camera, he grinned widely and lowered his voice, making himself sound absurdly like a radio announcer. _"Will Marissa succeed in getting free? Will Spike and his gang of intrepid heroes find the secret tower that hides our damsel in distress? And even if they do, will they actually find her, or just a blood trail leading to her remains? Find out during our next installment of _Night of the Living Undead_." _

With that, he took out what looked like a small remote from his pocket and pointed it at the camera. Spike and the others took heart when they saw that Marissa had taken the opportunity to spring from her position on the floor and lunge at him just as the screen went black. However, they realized that if Angelus had actually gotten around to e-mailing this to Oz, she didn't manage to do any permanent damage. If anything, she had only succeeded in making Angelus gleeful at this show of "spunk."

"Well," Spike brought up, almost feeling a bit of bile at the back of his throat, "so much for a bloody clue." As Doyle hunched over the desk and put his head in his good hand, Oz looked down in contemplation. Spike looked at him. With his arms crossed over his chest and his blue eyes far, far away, it was clear that Oz didn't wholly agree with his sentiment. "What's on your mind, Flea Boy?"

Oz didn't answer right away, though that could have simply been because he hadn't connected Spike's derogatory nickname with himself. At length, he moved towards the chair and waved Doyle out of it. The two of them traded places, and Oz set the video to play again. "Oh, come on," Doyle whined. "Aiming to give us our own fair share of torture?"

Opening a drawer, Oz quickly scrambled for a notepad and pencil and began scribbling things down as Angelus' voice droned on from the computer. "There's a common link," he breathed. "I know there is."

Spike and Doyle watched him curiously, though neither of them got close enough to him to be able to look at the video once again. Marissa's high-pitched whimpers bothered the both of them, as each felt directly responsible for her abduction. Oz seemed to be the only one taking the pragmatist approach that Spike had suggested, taking notes and trying to find any dropped hints.

After an agonizing amount of time until the video was over and done with once more, Oz leaned back in his chair and dropped his pencil. Staring down at the notes he took, he read out, "_American Idol_. Door number one. Go against the script. Improv. News flash. And the campy way he ended the tape." Looking up at Spike and Doyle, he told them, "Angelus always had a flair for the dramatic, but did he always use television metaphors?"

"That's circumstantial," Doyle protested unconvincingly.

"That's what I call a clue," Spike muttered. As though having just thought of something, he told Oz, "Play the end bit again. Just the last few seconds, with his little 'next installment' monologue." Oz quickly did as Spike instructed.

_"Will Marissa succeed in getting free? Will Spike and his gang of intrepid heroes find the secret tower that hides our damsel in distress? And even if they do, will they actually find her, or just a blood trail leading to her remains? Find out during our next installment of _Night of the Living Undead_." _

"Secret tower," Spike realized. "Coupled with television references." Clapping Oz on the shoulder, he told him, "Call Hercules. Ask him if he knows of any television studios in town that would have been long abandoned."

"A transmitting tower," Doyle numbly grasped as Oz took out his cell phone. "And he just mixed the other references into his conversation so casually that we'd have to watch this tripe more than once to figure it out, if we had gotten it at all. Oh, that smooth-talking bastard."

After talking to Robbie, Oz stated, "Pine Heart Studio, twenty-nine miles north."

* * *

"So-and I can't believe I'm saying this to _you_-what's the plan, fearless leader?" Doyle asked Spike.

They had parked Oz's van about a quarter of a mile away from the studio and were standing outside the vehicle, gazing at the looming tower ahead of them. Spike didn't respond right away, leading Doyle to realize that Spike was a poor excuse for a champion, that he wouldn't know a plan if it punched him in the gut, that-

"You stay here," Spike said at last. "Stay in the car, ignition off until you get a sign: a phone call, a scream, _something_. You're our escape hatch. If the wolf and I don't make it out, it's your responsibility to grab the pup and get her out of here. Far as she knows, you're just a human. Less likely for her to show off her monsterphobia. If she's not catatonic, that is." As Spike and Oz began to walk briskly down the dirt road leading to the derelict property, Doyle slunk back into the van and allowed himself to think that maybe he had been slightly mistaken about Spike's qualifications.

"And us?" Oz asked quietly as they walked. "Have you got a plan as to how we're going to get in, get Marissa, and get out?" When Spike didn't answer, Oz sighed, "You haven't gotten that far, have you?"

"Keeping Irish in the car was logical," Spike snapped back. "He's got a broken paw, so he won't be much use to us in a brawl. Besides, like I said, the pup would be more willing to run to him for safety if she knew that it was just him and not one of us slimy non-humans, yeah?" After a moment, he added, "There's no point in making a plan where Angelus is concerned. He fights dirty enough to make me look like Clark soddin' Kent."

Like Doyle, Oz was finding it difficult to believe just how often he had come to see Spike's point of view. Though a soul didn't change his basic demeanor as much as it had Angel's, maybe it _had_ made some fundamental changes. The primary one being that Spike's logic, though mostly ruled by gut instinct, actually had a tendency to make some sense.

It only took a few minutes for them to reach the television studio that had been shut down due to bigger and badder competition only a few years ago. Robbie hinted that there was something "off" about the circumstances of the shutdown, but he didn't seem to know enough details to want to get into it. Spike didn't believe that the details mattered; if there was any kind of crooked business dealings or something similar involved in Pine Heart being closed down, it was likely that Angelus wouldn't have heard of it or even cared. He probably just wanted a little out-of-the-way place where Marissa could scream as much as he wanted her to without attracting too much attention. The added bonus of a spare camera or two lying around was probably an incentive to his theatrical nature.

"What kind of name is Pine Heart anyway?" Oz remarked lowly, looking at the faded sign proclaiming the name with a smaller "For Lease" poster plastered over it. "I mean, this is California. We don't really have much in the way of pines here."

"Maybe the owner was a Canuck," Spike replied. "A Canuck with a case of homesickness. Or maybe his name was Pine or Heart and he happened to have a thing for one or the other. Who knows? More importantly, who bloody _cares_?" He said the last with a harsh glare at Oz. "Now isn't the time for your insipid musings, got that?"

"I happen to believe that life is fleeting," Oz told him dryly as Spike tried the door. "My insipid musings feel the same way, so any time's a good time for them." Wincing as Spike forcibly shouldered his way through the main entrance, he sighed, "I wouldn't think that now would be the time for your Hulk-smash attitude, either."

"If your prattling didn't make him perk his ears, then neither did this," Spike protested, stepping inside.

Following Spike and carefully making his way over the splintered door, Oz looked around at the bare walls of what once must have been the receiving foyer for hopeful actors, directors, and producers. "Vampire hearing," Oz stated. "I'm pretty sure he'd hear us before long, regardless. Besides, do you think he's still having his fun with Marissa instead of lying in wait for us? That video was sent a little over an hour ago and must have been taped before that. Not that I'm questioning Angelus' endurance, since I'd really rather not think about such things."

"Now would be a good time for your trademark stoicism," Spike hissed.

Either Oz had run out of things to say or he realized that it was very difficult to sneak up on the bad guy when you were rambling. Whatever the case, he finally quieted down. After a moment, Spike stopped. There was a doorway lacking a door, and it led to a staircase. Tilting his head upwards, Spike sniffed experimentally. It wasn't just his imagination. He smelled blood. He smelled _her_ blood. Had Angelus decided to cut her up a bit in the process of his playtime, or had he been rougher than necessary and torn something...?

The thought brought a darkness to Spike's face that hadn't been there since the night he had fought alongside Angel in the first battle to keep Los Angeles from being sucked into Hell. In a way, he had lost that battle. He resolved that, if Marissa was still alive, the same wouldn't be said for this one. He suddenly knew what the rest of his plan entailed, and he was happy for the secret weapon he had up his sleeve.

Without a word, he began to ascend the stairs. Oz followed silently behind him. There was no doubt that he was able to catch the scent of the blood as well, and perhaps the scent of other things that his werewolf constitution enabled him to smell. Spike wondered what these things were. Was it something solid, like other bodily fluids that he would pick up on himself as they got closer? Or was it something more abstract, like pure terror, which Spike might be able to sense but couldn't actually _smell_? Either way, he suddenly found himself feeling almost sorry for the small werewolf that trailed along behind him. After all, most of the time, he was only human.

It was a long time before they reached the very top of the stairs. In front of them was a set of double doors that no doubt led to another staircase before reaching the tower, and it seemed like they had until recently been chained shut. But the chain was now coiled neatly around one of the handles, and one of the doors was slightly ajar. A faint yellow light came from somewhere within, and Spike was suddenly certain that the room they were being led to would have no windows and no other way out save for this set of doors.

He looked at Oz, then back at the chain. Without a word, Oz moved forward and took hold of the heavy chain, looping it around his shoulder. With a nod to Spike, Oz stepped towards the slightly-cracked door and slowly opened it, drawing out the creak of the rusty hinges. Both of them looked irritated by the noise it was making, but there was nothing else they could do. Removing the stake he had packed in his jacket pocket, Spike paused for a brief moment before dashing in.

He was running through a long dark corridor, and he could hear the tinkle of the chain in Oz's grip as the werewolf raced after him. There was another door in the distance, a door to a room that was probably used as a small storage shed at some point, and it was this door through which a dim outline of light shone. It was this door through which Spike crashed and saw what he had expected to see.

It was the room from the video, all right. The same gray walls, the same not-much-else. He could see the camera still on its tripod in one side of the room, probably set to get more footage of either further torture or of the fight that Angelus no doubt expected. The wooden chair lay in splinters, and Spike's eyes searched with no real hope for a pile of dust on the floor that would tell him that Marissa had managed to do the job herself. The only thing he found on the floor was the twitching, frightened form of the girl in question.

She was sitting in the corner, shaking and murmuring quietly to herself as her fingers absently clutched at a bloodstained garment that had once been her sweatpants. Her bare legs were curled underneath her, and Spike knew that any sudden movements on her part would probably leave her painfully exposed. Her shoulder-length hair was a knotted mess and one of the sleeves of her tank top had apparently ripped and caused a blister against the skin of her shoulder. Spike was loath to think of the kind of friction that had occurred to get that sort of thing to happen.

Another cursory glance around the room proved that she was the only one there, and Spike cautiously stepped towards her. He realized that her words had a melodic air to them, though it didn't sound as though she was actually singing. She may have started out that way, but the words had become derailed somewhere along the line. "Pretty teeth," she was murmuring under her breath. "Pretty teeth that he shows, pearly white. White teeth. Keeps them way outta sight. Bodies oozing life. That's what they do. They ooze. They bleed. Live and die, live and die, that's all, folks. So says Mack the Knife."

"She's snapped," Oz breathed.

"And you're Sherlock," Spike muttered. Crouching down just in front of Marissa, he looked at her carefully before quietly calling, "Pup, can you hear me? Marissa? I'm going to put a hand on your shoulder, pet. Just so you know. On your shoulder, and I won't touch you anywhere else, all right?" Not expecting an answer and not receiving one, Spike reached out and gingerly touched the shoulder that hadn't been burned by the fabric of her shirt. Though she winced, she didn't lash out at him as he had thought she might.

Her skin was cold to the touch. Shock, she was definitely in shock. Wondering over the droplets of blood across her chest, Spike's finger gently brushed away the hair that rested on her shoulder, revealing her throat. She had been bitten. Not just bitten, but it looked like she had been _gnawed_ on. Angelus was more of an animal than he had remembered.

He felt the other presence in the room only moments before hearing the sudden chink of the chain in Oz's possession. Whirling around, Spike saw that Oz had spun around in an attempt to blindside Angelus with the chain, only to end up playing a macabre sort of tug-of-war with him. It didn't take long before he fell for Angelus' bait and tugged hard on the chain, only to be sent flying backwards when Angelus suddenly let go.

Spike hardly had the chance to jump to his feet before Angelus sent a wicked kick his way. It would have gotten him in the head if he hadn't been in the process of getting up, and instead it only caught him on his side. It made him stumble backward, but he absently realized that it didn't hurt as much as previous abuse from Angelus had.

_He's weak_, Spike realized_. Before, he had always been hiding away inside of Angel, who'd been doing his stupid _tai chi_ exercises to keep himself fit. But with this body having been dead for four years, it's taking him a bit of getting used to._ Discovering that Angelus wasn't in top condition took all of three nanoseconds, and he quickly called, "Oz, get the pup and get out of here."

Oz didn't argue. Though he wanted to rid the world of Angelus as much as the next guy, the next guy happened to be Spike. And if the blond vampire wanted to prove his goodness by fighting off Angelus by himself, more power to him. He quickly rolled onto his feet and grabbed Marissa's arms, telling her, "Come on!"

Angelus' cruel laughter was drowned out by Marissa's sharp scream at the touch of Oz's hands. "Right," Angelus remarked sarcastically. "Because after everything that's happened to her, she's going to willingly go off with _you_?"

Shooting Angelus a dirty glare, Oz told him, "I never said she'd be rescued out of her own free will, did I?" He gave Spike a quick glance even as he tightened his grip on the struggling girl he was forcing up. Though Spike didn't look at him, it seemed like he understood what the look meant: _Keep him distracted._

Deciding to cut right to the chase instead of prolonging this uneasy reunion, Spike lunged for Angelus and grabbed him by the throat. As he crashed with him onto the floor, he noticed two things. One was Oz's feet running for the door as he dragged the still-resisting Marissa with him. The other was that Angelus' skin was warm instead of room-temperature. He was nice and warm after feeding off a human girl. Feeding off of her as he _raped_ her.

Rather than stake him right there, Spike punched Angelus hard in the face, almost blinded by his pure rage. He was even more infuriated when he saw that the only reaction this elicited from the elder vampire was a rich, amused laugh. For a moment, Spike saw Angelus as he must have been back when he was Liam, the carefree inebriate son of a wealthy family. For some reason, that made him detest him even more.

Angelus suddenly shoved him hard enough to knock him off of him, enabling him to sit up. "Aw, what's the matter, William?" Angelus asked. "Sad because I had first go at her? Did you want to actually have something first? Or are you just annoyed because, now that _I've_ had her, you're going to have to get between her legs on principle?"

"I don't know what sort of deal you've worked out or who you worked it out with," Spike snarled, jumping for him once again. Angelus dodged and Spike rolled onto his feet. The two vampires stood facing one another as Spike concluded, "But I'm gonna make you wish that you'd stayed in the hell dimension you came from rather than just come back here so I can send you to a deeper level of the pit."

Angelus' face fell, as though he was gravely disappointed. "And here I thought that you had actually learned better," he told him, dodging another lunge from Spike. "I mean, if it was just you and Oz coming to the girl's rescue, then that means that either Doyle, the faerie, and this junior werewolf I've heard about have all split up-which would be a stupid way of dividing the resources-or you've got them on reserve in case you and Oz fail. Chances are, you've got Doyle playing the chauffer to act as second string to pull through in a clincher while the wolfling helps nurse the faerie back to health and pours over some magic books. And that'd be great! That means little William's finally thinking with his head! Just one little problem, kid."

By this point, Angelus had managed to knock the stake away from Spike pin him against a wall. With a good-natured grin, he continued, "If I know all this, don't you think that means I was _counting_ on it? Just like how I'd count on the fact that you'd be the one to want to lick me while the much smaller, much weaker, and much more _susceptible _Oz ran off with the girl?"

At first, Spike's rage blinded him to what Angelus was saying. After a moment, however, his eyes widened. A trap. Spike had known there'd be a trap. And like all cleverly laid-out traps, he hadn't even realized it when he had fallen into one.

His eyes went to the door, which was on the other side of the room. "Yep," Angelus affirmed. "You'd have to get past me and to the door if you want to stop the inevitable. Unfortunately, there are three things to consider. One, the inevitable has probably happened already, which is what makes it inevitable. Two, you don't know _what_ the inevitable is, so you don't even know how you'd go about stopping it. And three, you're under the mistaken impression that you actually _can_ best me."

That said, he quickly hurled Spike to the other side of the room. He crashed against the wall before falling onto the jagged pieces of the broken chair on the floor. If any of them had been positioned just right, he would have fallen right on top of a fatal stake. As it was, all they had managed to do was bite into various pieces of his flesh and cause him to cry out.

"I've told you once that killing is an art, dear William," Angelus said, approaching Spike with only the barest trace of coldness in his voice. "What you never seemed to get through your thick head was that I'm a master artist. And you? You were always nothing but dead weight. Time to make that literal."

Spike managed to raise his head just in time to see Angelus, stake in hand, dive for him.

* * *

Oz was seriously considering simply knocking Marissa unconscious to keep her from fighting against him.

Her nails were digging into the flesh of his arms, and her bare feet were planted firmly on the floor. If not for the fact that he could occasionally borrow strength and other traits from his wolf half, Oz wouldn't be able to pull her along with him. As it was, he was grateful that they were mostly going down a set of steps, as that made it leagues easier than having to drag her up.

"Leggo!" Marissa cried shrilly. "Leggo 'a me! You're one of 'em! Help! They're taking me away!"

Stopping between landings, Oz all but shoved her into a corner and firmly told her, "Look, we've got at least another three flights to go, and after that it's a long walk to the car. We've got two choices; either you calm down and come with me willingly, or I'm going to start transforming and carry you along on my back. Which would _you_ prefer?"

She answered him with a surprisingly hard push. Oz nearly fell down the stairs, but he managed to grab onto the banister and keep himself steady. He was too busy righting himself to stop Marissa as she moved past him, trundling down the stairs at a hectic pace.

Turning quickly to watch her go, Oz knew that it would be hopeless for him to keep trying. She was terrified and scarred, and she had lumped him in a group of scary inhuman rapists. He followed along behind her to keep an eye on her, but even as he tracked her, he took out his cell phone and called Doyle.

Marissa, meanwhile, wasn't even aware of the fact that she had nearly pushed someone down a dark set of stairs. All she knew was that there were hands grabbing, fingers clutching, and faces looming in front of her. They were fanged faces, deformed faces, faces that liked to grin and laugh and sink their pearly white teeth into her all at once. And at the same time, there was a burning, searing, invasive pain down there, and she felt proud that she could at least walk, sprint, maybe even run down these steps without her naked legs buckling under her.

But after a while, something _did_ happen. She either missed a step, or her foot came down unevenly, or her strength finally gave way. Whatever it was, it found her on the losing end of gravity, and she plummeted down the last set of stairs, or the last two sets, or the last million. After a while, a person has a habit of losing track of things like that.

From somewhere far away, she thought she heard her name. She would have responded, if she could only find the breath to let out the pained screech that was building in her throat first. As it was, all she could do was lay facedown on a cold, dirty tiled floor that hadn't been washed since the Clinton-Lewinsky affair was just an idle rumor at the water cooler.

Marissa winced when a scream sounded from somewhere above her, and she knew that something bad had happened. Bad for whom, she couldn't say. But if it wasn't her, then did it really matter? This place was filled with nothing but ghosts and ghouls and monsters, so who cared if they beat one another senseless, who cared if the world ended and took them all with it, who cared if-?

"What do you want, Marissa?"

Something that felt like an icy wind sailed down her spine at the sound of the low voice. She had heard it before, not too long ago, but she couldn't place it. It wasn't any of the people who called themselves her friends, since even those sham friends weren't monstrous enough to avoid the preliminary "how are you" or "are you okay" questions. It was someone who wasn't going to pretend to be her friend, and that made her feel less wary.

With a significant amount of effort, Marissa raised her head and looked up. Standing in front of her and looking down at her with a strange emotion in his dark eyes was a short, slim, unassuming man that she had never seen before. There was something akin to anticipation on his face, as though he knew her answer to his question and was just waiting for her to vocalize it. With a trace of impatience in his voice, he carefully repeated, "What do you want?"

She glanced behind him when she caught sight of movement. She saw a blonde woman fighting something that looked like half-man, half-wolf. The vampire that had broken into her house, she suddenly realized. Spike's old girlfriend. Fighting with Oz. Was this about Spike? Was this all about the girl getting back at Spike? Or did Oz and the other werewolves have some hand in this?

Her eyes brimmed with tears as she ducked her head again, her hands going over her ears as though to block out the entire scene just by cutting off the sound. "I just want the monsters to go away," she sobbed.

"N-n-_no_," he retorted sharply, stooping down before her and causing her to look up at him. She was suddenly frightened of him, frightened that he'd grab her by her hair and punish her for what he perceived as her incorrect answer. Punish her the way that vampire with the face of an angel had punished her.

"That's not what you want at all. W-what you want is more specific. Think; whose f-f-fault is this? W-when did the vampires and the w-werewolves come back into your life? Who was the one th-that was supposed to teach you to d-d-defend yourself against them and j-just led his mentor right to you? Who sat and _watched_ what happened to you hard enough to know wh-where you were? Who probably w-watched the tape two or th-three times, probably thinking he could do better?"

The questions were phrased all wrong. In the back of her mind, she knew that. She knew there was something wrong with them. But when he started referring to Angelus as a "mentor," she remembered. She remembered that he had initially called himself Angel, and that even Doyle had referred to him as such. He remembered that Angel was supposedly a good man, an upright sort of man, and that he was a vampire with a soul. And if a vampire with a soul could do what had just been done to her, she'd be a monster herself if she just let the other ensouled vampire she knew of walk off scot free.

"Spike."

He smiled at her in a way that was supposed to be pleasant, but ended up looking vaguely predatory. "Yes. Spike. He's probably up there right n-now, asking Angelus what your b-blood tasted like. Asking if his b-beloved sire can hold you down while _he_ gets a taste next time. Asking if he can co-star in the n-next episode of Angelus' little miniseries."

He kept on talking, either not seeing or not caring about the increasingly sick expression on Marissa's face. Spike _would_ ask such questions. Spike _would_ have probably gotten more than a little turned on at the sight of a helpless girl tied down and getting ravaged by his mentor.

And after all of this talk everyone had given her about how good and noble Angel was, it was possible that Spike was simply hiding his true nature in the same way Angelus had. A soul didn't turn a killer into a hero. A soul didn't do anything to change a person... except maybe make them just a little more reprehensible when they finally took off their masks.

"I want him dead," she suddenly snarled quietly. "No, worse than dead. He's already dead, so what difference would that make? He doesn't know what it's like, being on this end of the torture. He doesn't have the pearly white teeth ripping into his throat, he doesn't have the... the other thing... ripping into his...."

Choking back a strangled sob as a wave of nausea passed over her, Marissa shook her head and tried not to revisit the previous horrors of the night. She didn't notice that this small man was leaning into her the way a child would lean in close to a television set just when the program was getting good. She couldn't sense the eagerness that he exuded as she continued to mumble over the horrible, horrible fate that she prayed for Spike.

"Marissa!"

Marissa looked up at the call of Doyle's voice. He had just darted into the studio, and he was racing towards her. Looking around, she saw that the man she had been speaking to had disappeared, but Oz was still preoccupied with the blonde vampire.

Feeling something light land on top of her, Marissa looked back to see that Doyle had taken off his jacket and had draped it around her waist, as though for decency's sake. "Christ wept," he muttered sourly, his eyes panning over the various bruises and markings she had acquired since the last time they saw one another. After ascertaining that there were no major injuries that would worsen if he moved her, Doyle began the awkward and laborious task of getting her to her feet while keeping his jacket covering her. The undertaking was made all the more clumsy by the fact that his right hand was bandaged up.

Marissa felt that she should have asked about his cast, but all she could do was tightly grip onto Doyle's shirt as he helped her up. While a part of her wanted to be left completely and utterly alone, she felt Doyle's breath against her face and the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers, and that helped her. He was alive. He was human. He was not a monster. There was one person left in Woodridge who wasn't a monster.

Suddenly, Marissa thought that she might just be okay.

* * *

Spike felt that the next few seconds seemed to take forever.

The approaching events were a long time coming, and he knew that. He had always known in the back of his mind that this would happen, someway, somehow. Every time he fought with the vampire who was now in midair and lunging for him with a stake, Spike had known that the only way this could end would be with one of them finally having enough and pressing a piece of wood through the other's heart. It didn't matter if he was fighting against Angel or Angelus; this was the only way it could end.

He wondered again where Angel's soul was. Was it still resting peacefully in some Heaven-like dimension, joined at last with those people he had grown to love over the years? Or had bringing back this body gotten the good, decent soul stirring, allowing poor Angel to see what Angelus had done to Marissa? Would Angel try to take control of Angelus and get him off-course, or was he simply stuck watching Spike as the floored vampire loomed closer and closer to his view?

_Can't we ever rest?_ Spike asked himself sourly. _We fight and we kill, and that's all in good fun. But after we get tired, don't we champions got a right to just go to bed, throw the covers over our heads, and tell everybody to bugger off while we catch up on our sleep?_

There was going to be rest now, Spike resolved. At long last, a champion would go down and stay down. And Spike found that he didn't give a rat's ass about fate and prophecies or any of that. The wheel's in motion. What's done is gonna be done. And that's all there was to it.

So why did he feel a stab of sorrow clog up his throat?

When Angelus had gotten close enough that nothing short of a direct intervention from the Powers would keep him from sailing right into Spike, the younger vampire's eyes flashed as he unleashed the weapon he had up his sleeve. In the back of his mind, he thanked Angel for leaving behind a few of his toys. He had the distinct impression that Angelus wasn't so grateful to see the wooden stake protrude from the spring-activated wrist mechanism that Spike had clasped beneath his jacket before heading over here.

Time pulled a _Matrix_ on Spike as he sat up. Two actions followed which couldn't have taken up half a second, and yet they seemed to take forever in his mind's eye. With his left arm, he swiped away the stake that the wide-eyed Angelus had meant to impale him with. With his right, he heaved his own stake into his sire's chest and watched him buckle under the unexpected intrusion.

It wasn't his sire. It was the thing that Darla had created and that had, in turn, created Drusilla. Drusilla then begat a rebellious little twerp that had dubbed himself Spike. But all of those names were simply personas, fake cardboard exteriors that faded away as time went on. Darla was dead. Drusilla was off somewhere in La-La Land. And Angelus had become Angel, the noble vampire who had sacrificed himself before he could turn to the dark side once again. Spike was still Spike, but he was Spike with a soul. And he was _not_ going to let this hollow husk of a resurrected bastard turn him into a cloud of dust.

Do unto others _before_ they can do unto you. It was a motto that had always served him well.

Cold as he tried to be about the whole thing, it was difficult to be completely emotionless when he watched Angelus' surprised face turn grainy before dispersing into ashes. To Spike, it almost seemed like it wasn't Angelus so much as it was Angel, and that he had finally done what he had so often promised he'd do to Captain Brooding during their heated arguments. Remembering their constant bickering, Spike couldn't even enjoy his victory over Angelus because of the bitter memories that surfaced.

After a few moments, time seemed to pass along at its normal rate once again. Forcing himself back to his feet, Spike absently picked out the bits of wood that had bitten into his skin. All in all, he hadn't even been hurt. There was the psychological pain of having watched what had been done to Marissa and of the brief memories of Angel, yes. But in terms of physical damage, all he had gotten were a few heavy-duty splinters and a slight thrashing. "Tch," he muttered disappointedly. "Why go through all that trouble invoking that kind of dark magic when the battle's as half-assed as all that?" Though the question was meant to be rhetorical, Spike found himself wondering on that for quite a bit.

As he left the room and started down the stairs, he became convinced that the real battle wasn't over.

* * *

Marissa turned her head at the sound of the tentative knocks on the door.

Doyle was standing at the doorway of her room in Woodridge Hospital, a small bouquet of wildflowers in his good hand. "Hey," he called quietly. Gesturing towards the bright sunlight streaming in from the window, he remarked, "I was just passing through and figured that I'd take the time to prove that I can walk around during daylight hours, so that rules me out as a number of beasties, just in case you still had doubts. Now that I'm here, would you mind taking these flowers off my hands? They don't go with my outfit."

Seeing the small smile on the edge of her lips, Doyle walked into the room and placed the flowers on her stomach. Watching her as she silently fingered through some of the petals, Doyle assessed the damage. Two broken fingers from a miscast punch and a hairline fracture on her left arm from falling down the stairs. A lump over her right eye from being knocked unconscious, a large bandage over the bite to her throat, and several minor and not-quite-minor bruises and lacerations. He had asked the doctor as delicately as he could about any... _internal_ damage, and he replied that she wouldn't be able to walk without considerable soreness for a few days, but she was otherwise fine.

Otherwise fine except for the psychological trauma, that is. According to the doctor, Marissa refused to seek out any sort of counseling though it was clear that her nerves were shot. He prescribed several downers, but he didn't believe she'd take them. He had told Doyle that he needed to help convince her to stop being so stubborn, as it was clear that he was a close friend. She'd listen to him. Ha.

Carefully brushing a bit of hair away from her forehead and immediately wishing he hadn't due to the enhanced view of the gash along her hairline, Doyle quietly told her, "I checked in with the others after I left last night. He's dead."

"Spike?" Marissa asked hopefully.

Disconcerted by the encouraged way she looked up at him, Doyle hesitated for a moment before telling her, "No. Angelus. Spike managed to do him in." Watching as Marissa lowered her eyes back to the flowers, he paused for a second before continuing. "Oz said that Harmony-that's the girl vamp that he'd been fighting-just up and left, as though she disappeared when he had his back turned. Probably this boyfriend of hers whisked her away after Angelus got his ass served to him. Seems weird, though. Oz was mostly just being slapped around and Spike walked away without so much as a limp." He shut his mouth even as he realized what he was saying.

"Guess I just got lucky," Marissa murmured. A wild, uncontrollable laughter suddenly left her lips. Clamping her mouth shut as though to keep the braying sound from escaping again, she bit her lips and looked away, towards the window.

"I'm sorry," he told her honestly. "What happened to you... I don't understand why it had to happen, but Spike seems to believe that it all fits into something. He doesn't know what or why, but he says that the Angelus he fought was too much of a pushover to be the real deal. Maybe when they brought him back, they missed something in the spell-"

"Something that turned him into a rapist instead of a murderer?" Marissa asked harshly.

"Something that purposely made him weaker," Doyle carried on. "He'd still be strong enough to give the likes of me and you a beating, but they didn't want to make him so strong that they wouldn't be able to control him if he got out of hand. That set us to thinking that maybe Spike wasn't their target. Maybe it was-"

"_Me_?"

"A human," Doyle quickly corrected. "Just your average Joe or Jane that they wanted to get back at. And maybe Angelus saw you with Spike, and thought he'd pick up a side mission or something. We don't know. It's hard coming up with explanations when the bad guys don't leave convenient battle plans behind. All I know is that you got caught in the crossfire, and saying that that's damned unfair would be one _hell_ of an understatement. Spike wanted me to let you know that if there's anything he can do to make things right, say the word and he'll do it."

Truth be told, Doyle didn't know _what_ Spike had in mind when he had given him that message to give her. It wasn't as though Marissa would send Spike off on an errand to pick up some Excedrin or something. The one who did this to her was already gone, and they were already in the process of finding the two that were apparently responsible for summoning him. There was really nothing Spike _could_ do. As such, Doyle found Marissa's icy reply more than just a little startling.

"Tell him to drop dead."

* * *

After Doyle had left, Marissa dozed in and out of wakefulness.

She had never liked taking medicine. She never enjoyed doing anything that implied that there was something wrong with her. But when she was lying in a hospital bed after getting herself bandaged up, there really wasn't anything she could do when the nurses decided to pump her full of drugs.

_Because I need sleep_, she thought bitterly, her eyelids feeling heavy as she watched the sunset. _Because I need nightmares, since those will be just a walk in the park compared to everything that's happened._ "When did it happen?" Marissa murmured thickly. "When did it start becoming a nightmare?"

"When you fell asleep."

Marissa fought off the drowsiness just enough to turn her head. Standing besides her bed was the small man she had seen at the studio, the man who had been phrasing the questions all wrong. But they _hadn't_ been wrong, she realized later. There was a certain... a certain _rightness_ to them.

"Y-you fell asleep as soon as Xander t-told you that Spike wasn't y-your enemy," he continued. Marissa found herself convinced that he was simply a figment of her imagination, some kind of manifestation of all of her subconscious hatred towards Spike. She had lied when she claimed that she didn't hate him. Or maybe she simply hadn't known better. "Xander was a fool. A g-good man, but a blinded fool. He left you b-behind with someone he didn't even wholly t-trust, just because he allowed himself to f-f-fall under Spike's sway."

"What an idiot," Marissa uttered thickly.

"Spike claims he knows p-pain," he went on. "That he knows what it feels like to have everything h-hit him back all at once. Th-that he's remorseful. He doesn't know remorse. N-not yet. Unless he really _has_ experienced 130 years of the torture he's dished out. Then he understands what you're g-going through, which explains why he's c-come to visit you here s-so often."

"Bull," Marissa muttered. Spike hadn't come to visit her in the two nights she'd been hospitalized. No one had, save for Doyle (and her mother, but she hadn't been conscious during her visits). On one hand, she didn't want anyone to visit. She didn't know what she'd say to them, what they'd say to her. But now she noticed that Spike had sent his little human pet over with flowers and a message. Poor little foolish Doyle, who was just as blinded by Spike's manipulative abilities as Xander was. "He needs to be stopped," she realized as she thought about her cousin. "He needs to be stopped before... before something.... A stake through the heart. Drown him in a lake of holy water. _Some_thing."

"V-vampires don't breathe, or else I'd go along with that second option," he replied with a small smile, as though he was pleased by her reaction. "But you're right. There has to b-be something that c-c-can be done. If he knew what it was that you and his other v-victims went through-"

"I _wish_," Marissa replied fervently. "You have no idea how satisfied I'd be if I could make that happen. I wish Spike could feel all the pain, the terror, the pure _emotion_ that he and every other vampire in the entire world have forced on innocent people over the centuries."

She would have said more, but Marissa was overcome by a sudden chill. Looking up at the man that had speaking to her, she realized that he was no man at all. His face was riddled with boils and pockmarks, and she suddenly remembered where it was that she had seen him before. The demon. The demon that William had called a troll and that had the power to allow Harmony the ability to enter her house unbidden just with a single.... _A wish_, she realized, seeing the horrific smile that spread over his deformed face.

In a low, satisfied voice, he told her, "Wish granted."


	6. Put Your Lights On

_There's a darkness living deep in my soul  
Still got a purpose to serve  
So let your light shine deep into my home  
God, don't let me lose my nerve_

-"Put Your Lights On" by Everclear, featuring Santana.

* * *

They were dancing in an empty subway car.

It was the seventies in New York City, and he had just arrived in town a few weeks before, searching for her. It didn't take long to find her. Tracking these girls had become something of a hobby since his first one, a hobby that had become all the more intense since he and Dru got separated. He needed to let off a little steam, sway a little to that internal music, and he had been lucky. Not only had he found her, but this one was a sight prettier than the _last_ Slayer he'd danced with.

But there was something wrong. A few things wrong, actually. For one thing, he was already wearing the trench coat that he knew he'd snag off her corpse after the deed was done. For another, _she_ was leading the dance, instead of the other way around. And for another... he already knew how this would end. Or how it was supposed to end. But it looked like he had tuned in to some sort of alternate ending.

He didn't like it, but there was nothing he could do when Nikki Wood broke off a piece of a metal handrail and beat him with it. He managed to get up, to bite back the pain, but he couldn't deny that there was something different about it. It was intense. _Too _intense. It was more painful than a glancing blow like that should have been. And he realized that he suddenly thought about his son, his poor son who'd be left alone after he wound up on the wrong end of tonight's slaying.

But he didn't have a son. He _couldn't_ have a son. Regardless, a clear image of the small African-American boy popped up in his mind as he crashed onto the dirty floor, struggling for his life. He heard a strange sound in his ears, and he realized that this was the blood pounding in his temples. It was a sound he hadn't heard for himself in nearly a hundred years, but it felt as natural to his body as that angry terror. Why did _he_ have to be the Chosen One? Why did _he_ have to be the Slayer? Why couldn't the Watchers Council leave him alone after he had Robin? Couldn't these vampire assholes just stay under rocks where they belonged?

And then it happened, all at once. With a grin, Nikki Wood clasped his face in her hands. In the split-second before, an image of young Robin Wood, standing in the darkness and waiting in the rain for his mother, erupted into his mind. He would have burst out crying, but a quick movement of her hands broke his neck, and he was laying there, his heart stopped, the blood no longer pounding in his ears, and he was dead, dead and broken, watching as his unfeeling murderer got up from on top of him and ripped the coat from off of him, taking it as though it were a trophy, and his son was alone and scared and there was nothing he could do about it-

Spike screamed as he rolled off his sofa, onto the dirt floor of his crypt. Raising a hand to his neck, he felt for the broken bone. Though he couldn't find it, he could still _feel_ it, protruding from his throat and making it difficult for any sound to come out of his mouth. _Nightmare_, he thought frantically, though he knew he hadn't been asleep. _One bugger of a nightmare. Jesus Christ, wha-_

He was suddenly on another floor now. Judging by the deep smell of incense, he was in a church. And judging by the long hair on Angelus' head and the painfully beautiful Darla on his arm, this was even further back in the past than his tryst with the New York Slayer.

But it wasn't _his_ past. The memories that rushed to his head made no sense, not a bit of logical sense, and not just in the context of his own life. They were harried, disheveled, and familiar in only the vaguest sense of the word. They were the panicked memories of someone sinking into insanity, of finding no other recourse than to hide away within the dark recess of his own mind. Or _her_ own mind, judging by the white dress Spike saw on the fringes of his vision.

They had killed her family (_his_ family). Had murdered them all, right in front of her (_him_). Had chased her (_him_) all throughout the country, and she (_he_) had thought that there would finally be some peace in joining a convent, tightening the bond between herself (_himself_) and God. Drusilla had never dared to imagine that these wicked devils would slaughter all of the other nuns on the grounds on the very night that she had meant to join the sisters in their pious devotion to the Lord Almighty.

Spike could feel the terror banging against the chest of the woman who would become his sire, and dimly realized that these were her last few heartbeats. Angelus and Darla had chased her here, to this dim corner behind a pew, and now they were falling, falling on top of her and doing things to one another that shouldn't be done in a church. Spike could taste the metallic fear that had been in Drusilla's mouth when she realized that these two creatures of the night were defiling it, defiling God's house, right here in front of her, and that they would defile her next in a way that would bring untold misery to the world. Killing herself would damn her soul to Hell, but better her than damning countless innocents, and as she searched the church for something she could use to finish herself off, she felt a cold grip clasp onto her frail wrist, and she knew that she'd be invited to join them in their iniquity sooner rather than later, and it would be an invitation that she wouldn't get a chance to refuse-

In his crypt, Spike didn't even realize that he had let out a long, piercing scream as he threw his arms over his head. He hardly gained a moment of clarity before his brain fell upon another scene, a scene that he was sure would kill him, a scene that enlightened him as to his own dear mother's emotions just before her darling William had bitten her.

In a strange way, it was those moments of clarity that made this all the more excruciating, since they reminded him that these events were over and done with, these events were in the past, and there was nothing, not a thing that he could do to change them. Even though the victim in the next scene was a complete stranger to him, he could feel her terror and her suffering, and Spike wished that someone would just come into his crypt while he was laying helpless on the floor and stake him before the next tidal wave of sensation hit him.

However, unlike someone else, Spike's wish was never granted.

* * *

Marissa sat up, her heart racing at the sight of the creature standing next to her hospital bed.

A few minutes ago, she had been fine. Still weary from the drugs that were being pumped into her to keep her calm, but the Xanax had been doing its job. She wasn't a blubbering mess, she wasn't attempting to make little blond voodoo dolls, and she had hardly noticed the soreness from her various injuries. But at the movement it took to get her to sit up, she felt the sudden sharp stab in her lower abdomen and prayed that this was all a bad dream. At length, she finally asked, "What are you?"

With a smirk as he absently adjusted the cuffs on his black button-down shirt, the being said nothing at first. Finally, as though in afterthought, he replied, "I'm what they c-call a vengeance demon. Or j-j-just-justice demon, as the liberal ones like being called. But I'm part of the old school, and I d-d-don't see the point in hiding behind semantics." Looking down at her as though she had just fallen for an amusing prank, he explained, "If s-someone makes a wish against someone who's wronged them, it's m-my job to c-c-carry it out."

"So you're karma," Marissa realized. "Funny, I thought you'd be taller." Seeing his glare darken, she quickly stated, "I always heard that payback was a bitch. So what, now Spike's going to go through the rest of his unlife with random muscle spasms and nightmares?"

"D-d-don't be ridiculous," he chastised. "That's not what you w-wished for. You wished for him t-t-to feel all the pain he and his kind have inflicted on others since the d-dawn of time. An _excellent_ wish, too. He's p-probably in the graveyard right now, trying to claw his own g-grave in hopes that he'd b-be able to deprive himself of enough senses to g-get rid of the images. If he has enough sentience for that, of course."

Marissa thought about Spike-tall, snide, condescending Spike that had beaten her in every fight and had slowly began to take away everything she'd ever cared about-crawling through the dirt like a madman. If no one found him, would he still be out and about come the sunrise? Would he burn to his final death while in the throes of immeasurable anguish, then go off to Hell without completing this so-called destiny that everyone was raving about?

While a part of Marissa felt guilty over having broken her promise to Xander about not hurting Spike unless he became dangerous, reason quickly took over. Spike _was_ dangerous. He was a vampire, and Angel/Angelus had surely been sent after her as a sign that a soul doesn't change that. Even if Spike wanted to delude himself into thinking that he was batting for the right team now, it didn't change the fact that there was a killer lying in wait beneath his skin, just waiting for him to slip up so it could come out. The same could be said for Robbie and Oz, and possibly even Violet.

This demon in front of her, this vengeance demon, maybe it wasn't really a demon at all. Maybe it was another messenger from the Powers That Be, acting as the cosmic entity known by some as Karma. She had to accept that, since she couldn't bring herself to realize that she had just inadvertently used demonic magic against someone, even if that someone _was_ Spike.

"Good," Marissa growled. "I hope he sees his asshole of a sire in Hell."

She looked up at him when he chuckled good-naturedly. "Oh, he won't. His sire isn't in Hell, y-you see. His sire-or, at least, the s-soul that m-matched the body of his sire-fulfilled his p-part in the world long ago. That soul's safe in a d-d-dimension known as the Higher Realm, which is what you mortals would probably consider Heaven."

"What?!" Marissa exclaimed, arching forward and bringing another ripple of pain through the lower half of her body. "That thing? The thing that did _this_ to me?" At that, she held up her right hand, on which her two broken fingers were bandaged and sticking out like claws. "_That's_ in Heaven? But he's a vampire. A demon!"

"A g-g-good man," came the reply, relishing it in a macabre sort of way. "If you allow a human soul to l-live long enough, one of two things will happen to it. It will either b-become an agent of horrific, t-tragic evil, or it w-will become a hero and champion of all that is g-good. Luckily, we d-d-demons don't find ourselves drawn towards these moral identities. B-but Angel-the vampire with a human soul-lived a very, very long time. L-long enough to know that he was being drawn to the Dark Side. And r-rather than let that happen, he let himself g-go and ended it for himself. And he gave it all-his duties, his legacy, and his unabashed c-confidence-to Spike."

Marissa tried to arrange all of this information so it made some semblance of sense in her head. Xander hadn't told her any of this. He had mentioned that Angel was good and that Angel was dead; he had never mentioned anything about Angel killing himself and leaving Spike behind to save the world. The idea of _anyone_ having that much trust in Spike was just utterly berserk, even if that person _did_ know him for ten or twenty or a hundred years.

But then... she had seen William. She had sat with him, talked with him, even gave him some tea while he read _Peter Pan_. And Spike had claimed to remember the encounter, even after all this time. Were they the same person? Was the thing that she had just wished such horrible pain upon the same person as the poet that had felt so out of place in his own time?

"Then again, that's the sad p-part," continued the demon, as though having read her thoughts. "He _did_ have such a b-b-bright future. There was even a p-prophecy that p-promised that, if he fulfilled his great destiny, the Powers would reward him with a pulse, a heartbeat, and a w-w-working digestive tract. Sounds a bit like a p-punishment, if you ask me, but no need to w-worry about that. Marissa Harris sided with the m-monsters for just one second, and that was enough to damn the world. Even Xander c-couldn't top that."

The mention of her cousin made her blood run cold. "How do you know about Xander?" She noticed that his beady little eyes had narrowed into slits when Xander had come into the conversation, and she realized why it was that "vengeance demon" sounded so familiar to her. Reaching out to grab him by his collar, she asked, "Does this have to do with Anya-?"

The last syllable of that word broke off in a loud yelp as she was suddenly flung across the room, the IV needles being unceremoniously yanked from her forearms and the metal tray on which she had rested Doyle's flowers clattering to the floor. She managed to not land on her fractured arm, but that didn't stop the tears from welling up in her eyes as she cried out. She frantically wondered why no nurses had come, why she hadn't even seen anyone through her open door, and she came across a startling revelation. She was in a bubble. If this demon had the power to invite a vampire into her home and to cause someone unspeakable torment just on someone else's fancy, then it was wholly possible that he also had the power to keep them locked away in a soundless bubble where no one could see or hear them.

"You don't get to say that name!" Marissa looked up to see that the demon was glaring at her, probably having a few wishes of his own that he'd like to see granted. As she struggled unsuccessfully to rise to her feet, he stepped towards her and continued, "That name is just a corruption of the true Anyanka, and you have no business desecrating it with your inane questions."

She was in worse pain than she had imagined she could be in, but Marissa eventually managed to throw an arm up towards the windowsill and used that to balance her up. Observing the seething demon that was approaching her, she found herself wishing that she hadn't inherited Xander's ability of not knowing when to shut up. "Your stutter's gone. I thought stutters were supposed to get worse when someone's angry or emotional. So either you're not as emotional as you're pretending to be-"

With a growl, he slammed her against the wall and held her there. "Don't you _dare_!"

"-or," Marissa grunted, "you're so emotional that your tongue's managed to temporarily overcome your mental block, allowing you to speak clearly for the first time in years." Forcing herself not to close her eyes and mewl in pain, she remarked, "I don't think she was two-timing Xander, so I'm crossing lover off the list. Family?"

He stared at her for a long time, leaving Marissa torn between thinking she had hit the nail on the head and that she was so out of the ballpark that he was thinking of the least messy way to flay her alive. When she was hurled against another wall instead of being killed, she had a good inkling as to which one of those options was correct. When she forced her head up and saw that the demon had gone away in his silent rage, she knew for certain that the nail had been hit.

And quite possibly, that same nail was going to seal her or Xander's coffin.

* * *

"All I'm saying is, it all seems a little _convenient_ to me."

Seeing Oz's tired expression, Jordy held his hands up in defense and added, "Okay, okay. So maybe 'convenient' isn't the word I'm looking for. Maybe it's too strong a word or something. Or too easy. Which is what this entire escapade _reeks_ of."

"Take a nip of something strong and calm yourself, man," Doyle told him. The three of them were sitting in Jordy's basement, waiting for Spike, Robbie, and Violet to show up. Doyle had been spending his nights down here, trying to get a handle on everything that had been happening to the vampires, the Slayers, and the miscellaneous others since his temporary stint in Hades. He had come to the conclusion that Spike-while not anyone that he would coin as "good"-was definitely on the slightly more benevolent side of neutral, which pretty much put him on par with the Powers That Be themselves. As such, he no longer felt the need to grip his revolver when he knew that the blond vamp was going to be in the vicinity.

"So I'm the only one, then?" Jordy asked, looking from Doyle to his cousin once again. "I mean, maybe there's something you left out of the story, but from what I understand, this entire thing is just so... it's a set-up, don't you see? If this Angelus guy is as scary and important as you guys have been saying, then getting rid of him was just too easy. Outside of Doyle's broken hand, none of you guys have got so much as a single scratch-"

"Too bad that that's not what counts," said Robbie's voice. Looking up, Jordy saw him and Violet coming down the stairs that led in from the backyard. The two of them had probably seen the cellar door open and the light on, and decided that it was easier to come in that way. "So we're not covered in bruises," Robbie went on, a little too coldly. "We're all safe and sound, big whoop. But Marissa's still in the hospital, and she's more hurt than we can imagine. Worse yet, she's one of the only ordinary humans this town has got, one of the people that the group of us are supposed to be protecting, and you're just assessing the damage that you can _see_? That's low, Jordy-"

"Robbie, please," Violet told him, putting a hand on his large arm as he clenched his fists at his sides. "Jordy didn't mean anything by it. Did you, Jordy?"

"No way, bro," Jordy replied, his blue eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge how badly-if at all-Robbie's temper would affect his inner wolf. "I don't want Marissa or anybody else getting hurt. As far as I can figure it, though, most of her hurt's up here." With that, he tapped a finger to his temple, signaling the psychological trauma that Marissa was surely going through after having been savagely raped and beaten by a vampire. "Having her worst fear suddenly come true might've damaged her, which probably saved her a bit of the physical pain at the expense of making her go a bit loose upstairs. She might be forced to drop out of school, and maybe she'll even decide to move out of her mom's place and get the hell out of California, searching in vain for a place without monsters. And for what it's worth, all that's a shame.

"But let's get real," Jordy continued, looking at everyone now. "It was _Angelus_. Or, at least, something that looked like Angelus and had his memories and behavior patterns. I did a bit of research on the guy and none of you have exactly been giving me cozy bedtime stories about him. And the fact is, the fight between him and Spike lasted all of two minutes, if that. The two of them have been rivals pretty much since the night they first laid eyes on each other. Yeah, it makes sense for Angelus to go for a human girl that Spike seemed to be associating with, and it makes sense for him to have his sick fun and tape it for the rest of us to see. But in terms of numbers, he caused a total of _one_ casualty. I'm not saying that Celia Levine's death is something to be overjoyed about, but that's a pretty low statistic for someone who's got musty books written about him in several languages, some of which are no longer spoken. So feeding off of one girl and playing with another just before getting himself killed by a fledgling? It's not Angelus' style."

There was a moment of silence as the others allowed for this to sink in. At length, Oz bitterly stated, "He's got a point. Angelus would have taken his time, picked off one victim here and another there. Either we found him a lot faster than he had expected, or this was all...."

"Rigged," Doyle realized, though he didn't sound particularly surprised. "Like a crooked card game. Angelus was the bluff, a bluff too dangerous to be allowed out in full force. But seeing him would be like getting a sight of an ace up somebody's sleeve, just to find out they're dealing a completely different hand."

"A different hand," Violet agreed, "but not necessarily a less dangerous one." With a heavy sigh, she collapsed down on the basement steps and hugged her knees to her chest. The recent events have left her physically and emotionally drained, and her cheery disposition had suffered greatly for it. "So what we're saying is that Angelus was summoned not just to wreak havoc on the world, but to blind and distract us from something that could be even more problematic."

"Or maybe he helped." Everyone turned to look at Robbie, who hadn't moved to sit down since his entrance. With a shrug, he explained, "Maybe Angelus wasn't there just to distract us, but to help whatever it is that's coming. I mean, what if everything's connected? The ghosts, the increase in vamps and demons, even us all being brought together. Isn't that what that ghost was saying the other night when he said that Spike's the cause of it?"

"Everything is coming down," Oz stated hollowly. "That's what he said. 'Everything is coming down.'' He was a little uneasy about the subject, since the ghost had been that of Jordy's father, and Oz still hadn't had the chance to sit and talk with him about that. Given the potential madness that they were facing, he wasn't sure if Jordy ever _should_ find out about Oz's brief-yet-traumatic meeting with the ghost of Uncle Ken.

With a frustrated sound, Violet cradled her head in her hands and murmured, "This would be so much easier if Spike were here. There has to be something about his last moments with Angelus that'd help us, some...." After trying and failing to find the right word, she weakly finished, "Some clue."

"Where _is_ the original Billy Idol, anyway?" Doyle asked, glancing at the plastic clock on the wall. "I'll never compliment him for his intelligence, but I would've thought he'd be able to tell time. He's usually in here a few minutes after sundown, asking us to order a pizza with a side of pig's blood. Extra sauce, he calls it."

"You don't suppose he ran into some trouble with a ghost, do you?" Robbie asked. "He spends his days in that creepy little mausoleum even though I offered him my couch; sometimes I think he's purposely trying to rile one of them up into a real fight. So... maybe he bit off more than he could chew."

"A vampire? Biting off more than he can chew?" Oz scoffed sarcastically. "That only happens _all_ the time." Dropping his cynical tone, he mentioned, "But you're right. If there's a chance that things are only going to get worse, he's setting himself up for something bad by living in the cemetery. Doyle and I will head over there, check in on his crypt and make sure we don't find any suspicious-looking piles of dust around."

"Should I put on my dancing shoes in case we do?" Doyle queried jokingly.

"Robbie and Violet, stay here," Oz continued. "If Spike's just delayed and we happen to miss him, call my cell and we'll head back." Looking at Jordy, he wryly said, "I suppose you know what I'm going to tell _you_."

"For sure," Jordy stated wearily, rising to his feet. "'Go to your room, watch your mom's back, and keep your cool.' It's the same song every time, Oz." With a wry smile as he moved to maneuver around Violet and climbed the stairs leading into the main floor of the house, he replied, "You're lucky that Junior would rather read his psych books than spend time out on the field."

Doyle waited until Jordy was out of sight before turning his gaze to Oz. "You know, I'm no parent, but that-"

"Neither am I," Oz interrupted. "And if any of us plan on helping to perpetuate our respective species, we should do what we can to wrap this business up before it's too late."

As though having just thought about it as Oz turned to go, Doyle wondered, "Can people who've been brought back from the dead procreate? I mean, I know the hardware's working, but the software...."

"For the sake of my computer science degree," Robbie stated, "please don't ever refer to your equipment in those terms again." He said nothing in response to Doyle's lopsided grin and watched as the half-demon and the werewolf headed out to search for a vampire in the cemetery. After a moment, he asked more to himself, "Can _werewolves_ procreate?"

"I'm _not_ giving you a full system diagnostic, so don't ask," Violet responded.

* * *

It was Parent-Teacher Night at Sunnydale High School

It was only his second night in town, a dim part of him knew, but it had felt like forever. He suddenly knew why when the vampires crashed through a door and he grabbed Cordelia Chase's hand and raced into a janitor's closet, locking them in. Cordelia-a long way from the confident, caring young woman that he had briefly come to know before she died in Los Angeles-had grabbed a broom handle in her shaking hands. Her mascara was running. She was sweating. She probably repulsed herself.

But he didn't care. He had known Cordelia his entire life, since grade school, and he knew that a broken nail would probably elicit a similar reaction. But he had only known Buffy since she transferred to that school the previous semester, and he already knew that Buffy would save them. Buffy _always_ saved them.

_I'm just a scared little girl_, he thought to himself, an ear to the door as he listened for footsteps. _Scared little girl, always waiting for Buffy or Xander or Giles to rescue me. The damsel in distress. I don't _want_ to be the damsel. Well, the damsel part's not going to change, but distress? No! I can go out there. I can help the others. With my computer whizziness, I can figure out... _something_. So here goes. Willow to the rescue._

Just as Willow had placed a hand around the doorknob and was steeling herself to yank it open and face whatever was out there, something crashed against the door. She gasped sharply, darting away and allowing Cordelia to grab at her as they cowered in the back of the closet. There was something out there, and it was going to come in.

"Oy, what do you think you're doing?" At first, Willow thought that the voice that came from the other side of the door was speaking to them, but she soon realized that it was too far away. It was speaking to whatever had been trying to get in.

"I smell fear," replied a voice just on the other side of the door.

"Damn right you smell fear," answered the first voice, sounding more than just slightly miffed. He sounded vaguely familiar, and Willow soon caught on that it was that new big deal vampire in town, William the Bloody or Spike. Neither of those were nice names. Not nice at all. "We're in a bloody school building filled with middle-aged parents who are so close to reverting to their childhood days that they're probably soiling their knickers, and there are a handful of young folks about, wondering why Mummy and Daddy are shaking in the corner."

Another loud bang came from outside, and Willow and Cordelia had to keep themselves from crying out when they realized that Spike had shoved the other vampire against the door and was probably pinning him down. In a lower voice that was hardly at all audible, Spike told him, "We're not here to play roustabout with the kiddies, understand? We're here for one thing: the Slayer. You find her, I'll let you lick a few drops of blood from her neck when I'm finished. You foul this up, and it's barbecue time for you. Are we seeing eye to eye on this?"

Willow waited what seemed like an eternity for the voices to fade away. When they did, and she was sure that it wasn't just a vampire trick to get them to make a sound, she let go of Cordelia and sank to the floor. Hugging her knees to her chest, she did something that she had sworn she wouldn't do in front of Cordelia Chase ever since fifth grade. She cried.

He felt the sobs wracking through her body, felt that complete and utter helplessness that coursed through her at the sound of his voice. She was desolate. She had known that Spike wasn't an average vampire, and he'd be the death of Buffy. She had known that Spike would take one of her best friends away from her and there'd be nothing she could do. She was just a scared, lost little girl, locked in a closet with Cordelia Chase, waiting to be rescued by someone who was going to be killed by this new vampire. And there was not a thing she could do about it.

In his tomb, Spike covered his face with his hands in an unconscious attempt to stop the tears that were flowing freely. Willow had been the only one of Buffy's little Scooby gang that he had never outright hated, and he had done that to her. He had backed her into a corner with someone she had reviled and made her certain that Buffy would die that night. She had once been a frightened sixteen-year-old girl, and he had once been a creature that would have delighted at having known he had educed that kind of misery from her.

Though the next flurry of images in his head involved people he didn't even know, they didn't hurt any less.

* * *

Oz and Doyle trudged warily through the cemetery, careful of sidestepping the hordes of ghosts in their path.

"You know, the way I always figured it," Doyle was saying, "if a house becomes infested with ants, and there's not an exterminator in town who can get rid of them, I'd move the hell away from that house. Same situation here. If these ghosts are causing such problems for the happy little people of this cheery old town, why can't they just pick up and go? Wouldn't that spare us the trouble of having to actually figure out what's causing this?"

"We can't all be nomads like you," Oz replied, keeping a sharp eye out for Spike or familiar-looking ghosts. "Most of the people in Woodridge aren't going to be done paying their mortgages until Judgment Day, whenever _that_ happens to roll around. And selling wouldn't exactly be a smart move right now, with our economy the way it is. People like Robbie and Violet, who live in apartments, can probably afford to get out, but they're mostly young people who've spent their entire lives here. And you know these young people. They're too stubborn to be scared away by a couple of ghosts."

"Stubborn's not the word I'd use," Doyle remarked, watching the ghost of an elderly woman who had apparently cut her wrists drift by. "I've got such a big case of the heebie-jeebies right about now that I'm willing to leave Spike to the sharks so I can go back to Jordy's and scrub the ectoplasm from my skin."

"You'd be willing to leave Spike to the sharks regardless," Oz noted.

Doyle would have jokingly denied the allegation, but a loud scream broke through the night air, chilling him to the bone. Looking around the cemetery, he tried to pinpoint the location of the yell, but gave up when Oz pointed ahead of them and took off. "This way," Oz told him. Considering that he was a werewolf, Doyle asked no questions about how he knew that and simply ran off after him.

It wasn't long before they crashed into a rather large mausoleum, which looked more worn on the outside than Doyle would have imagined Spike could tolerate. His thoughts on the vampire's tastes quickly fled his mind when he saw what he and Oz stumbled upon. It was a sight so utterly strange to Doyle that he needed a moment to come to terms with it.

Prior to his arrival in Woodridge, Doyle had known Spike as the evil, sadistic nemesis of Angel. He was someone who didn't even flinch when his enemies were armed with stakes and had him cornered, since he was so cocky that he knew he could get past them without really trying. And while Oz had managed to see a bit of Spike's anti-hero side before leaving Sunnydale for good, the predominant image of this vampire in his mind was that of an arrogant, sneaky, and too-intelligent-for-his-own-good killer.

So seeing Spike curled on the floor in the fetal position, his tearstained face contorted as he bellowed in either pain or fear... that came as something of a shock to both of them.

Oz was the first one to step into the tomb, and Doyle took heart and stepped in directly behind him. "Spike?" Oz called carefully. "Spike, what is it?" When Spike merely continued to scream, Oz looked back at Doyle. "The ghosts," he concluded. "One of them must've gotten in. Either a more powerful one, or one that he knew personally."

"Are you sure?" Doyle asked. "Maybe the whole weight of having a soul has finally made him snap. It'd be humane to put him out of his misery, if that's the case." Oz turned away from him and headed towards Spike. Doyle tensed up. "Joking aside, when the scary things are scared, it's usually an indication that something _bad_ has happened."

"I know," Oz replied quietly, crouching besides Spike. "That why he needs our help."

* * *

Marissa squinted in the bright sunlight as her mother helped her out of the car, but otherwise made no response.

Elsie Harris was worried. She would never be nominated for Mother of the Year, but that didn't mean that she didn't have a heart buried somewhere within her chest. As far as she had been told, her daughter had been attacked on the street while out at night with her friends. One of the friends, Celia Levine, was dead. And when she had asked the doctors about the extent of Marissa's injuries, they had told her that the girl had asked to keep the details confidential. Elsie hadn't realized that, as an adult, her daughter could now legally keep secrets from her.

Marissa hadn't said a word to her since she went to pick her up from the hospital after work that morning. There were large dark circles under her eyes, indicating that she hadn't slept. The eyes themselves took on a glassy appearance, as though she had grown catatonic. Elsie knew that this wasn't the case, as Marissa had called a nurse last night to help her get back into bed, but she thought it was clear that there was something going on behind those eyes. Some sort of calculating, or some such thing. It scared her.

The two women said nothing to one another as they climbed the porch steps. Unlocking the front door, Elsie once again wondered over the sudden stiffness in the hinges, as though someone had recently replaced them. She said nothing about that to Marissa, though, not wanting to startle the girl about the idea of someone having been in their house. Of course, Elsie didn't know that a time traveler, a vampire, a demon, and a werewolf had all been in there two nights ago, nor did she or Marissa know that a half-demon had helped to clean up the resulting mess.

"Do you want something to eat?" Elsie asked. "The nurses said you didn't... you didn't...." She trailed off when she saw that Marissa was already headed up the stairs towards her room, as though she hadn't heard her.

Away from the woman who was now going to attempt to be Super Mom, Marissa shrugged her jacket and messenger bag off and entered her room. Closing the door behind her, she went to her bed and uttered a soft moan to be off her feet. It had taken a lot for her to not walk strangely, since that would definitely raise her mother's suspicions about the exact nature of Marissa's attack. She wondered if the whole thing had made it to the local news, and that led her to wondering if she could ever show her face around town again without getting strange and not-quite-sympathetic looks.

She was exhausted. True to her mother's assessment, she hadn't slept a wink the night before. After Sadrahd's visit, she had forced herself back into bed with the aid of a nurse (who was perplexed as to how and why Marissa had ended up on the other side of the room, and with what looked like fresh bruises) and lay awake all night. Was it true? Had she really just wished perpetual torment on Spike? Worse yet, was he really aimed for Heaven after his long-awaited death, just as his sire had been?

That wasn't fair. It just really wasn't. Did her wish just add on to the suffering he had to bear before reaching salvation, like nailing Christ to the cross? _I'm a Roman_, she thought crazily, lying on her bed and looking up at the cracked paint on her ceiling. _No better than Mel Gibson's hand hammering in the nail that went through Jesus' hand in that _Passion_ movie. So am I, then, Mel Gibson?_

A small giggle passed her lips before she clamped her mouth shut. It was the drugs from the hospital, she reasoned. The drugs and the lack of sleep and the-oh yeah-traumatic experience that she had just gone through. She pretty much had a God-given right to be a little crazy right now.

The easiest way to get over a slight case of insanity was to do things that she'd normally do if she were sane. At least, that's what made sense to her. _But what do I know? I'm crazy_. She shook the thought out of her mind as she reached for her bag. Shuffling through it for a moment, she drew out her cell phone and moved towards the charger that she kept plugged in by her nightstand, wincing at the pain in her abdomen from stretching.

Doyle had been the one to take her to the hospital, and he was also the one who had taken the bag she left at _Neon_ and brought it to her. Though she tried not to think of Angelus as she turned the phone on and plugged it in, she had hazy memories of Doyle appearing out of nowhere and getting himself involved in the scuffle with the evil vampire. No doubt that that was how he had broken his hand, and she bet that there were also a few black-and-blues that his clothes covered up. He had tried. Though there was nothing physically remarkable about him, the pale little guy actually went head-to-head with an infamous vampire, presumably having known who he was ahead of time.

_He's a good guy_, she thought as her head settled back against her pillow. _He's really a good guy. You don't see a lot of those these days, especially since they're all just demons trying to good-deed themselves out of Hell-_

Her thoughts were cut off when she heard her phone beep, signaling that she had a voice message. Looking to the phone, she wondered who would have called her while she had been in the hospital, and hoped against hope that that meant there hadn't been anything on the news about her incident. Then again, she realized as she set about retrieving her message, a flurry of phone calls could just as easily mean that everyone's heard and were now leaving their empty condolences on her voicemail.

_"Marissa, it's Doyle,"_ came Doyle's voice from her phone. _"Uh, it's about... three in the morning, I guess, and I figure you're probably asleep in the hospital. But I just needed to get away from the basement for a bit. Spike's a bit round the bend right now and causing us a headache as we try to figure out what's wrong. We thought it was the ghosts at first, but now we think... we don't know. Maybe a spell or something. Anyway, that's not anything you need to hear. If you're listening to this, it means you're home and feeling well enough to be there, or that the doctors are idiots and let you talk on your cell when there are big signs everywhere saying you shouldn't. So I hope you keep feeling better, and if you need to... y'know... talk-not about what's happened, unless you do, in which case, fine, but more about... anything-just give me a call. I'm staying with Oz's cousin Jordy, who I understand is something of a friend of yours, so feel free to give me a ring here at his place. His mother is surprisingly lenient, so don't worry about the time; just call me if you need me. I'd appreciate the reprieve from the banshee down here. Take care."_

Marissa had to listen to the message twice, since her brain stopped properly functioning the moment Doyle mentioned that something had happened to Spike. "Round the bend?" That was a delicate way of saying he'd gone crazy, wasn't it?

_ "I wish Spike could feel all the pain, the terror, the pure emotion that he and every other vampire in the entire world have forced on innocent people over the centuries."_

Those were her words, weren't they? The exact, precise conditions of the wish. And she imagined that, if other people's harrowing experiences with vampires were anywhere near as bad as her own, and Spike had been made to feel everything that had ever been done by the thousands-perhaps _millions_-of vampires that had existed throughout history, crazy would be an understatement. There was no word for just how much of a wreck he would be. Doyle had called him a banshee. Banshees screamed, didn't they? That meant that Spike was screaming like a little girl, his voice going hoarse and eventually fading, but he'd never be able to quell his desire to yell at the top of his lungs.

After taking in all of this, Marissa threw her head back and laughed.

* * *

Personally, he had never found Lucy Westenra all that appealing.

But _he_ did, the dumb ponce, and that was enough to get him to set off a trail of events that, for some reason, would live on in one of the most famous horror novels ever written. If Spike could, he'd wring Bram Stoker's neck for publishing this tripe. But as it stood, his hands were too busy shaking as he watched Dracula do things to Lucy, horrible, unconventional things that shouldn't be done to a young betrothed woman, and he suddenly knew the terror that Mina Murray felt when she had followed her sick best friend out into the garden upon finding her missing from bed.

And like a shot, he was no longer Mina Murray, but her unfortunate fiancé Jonathan Harker, trapped within Dracula's castle and caught in the thrall of his three wives. Except that, really, Dracula only had two wives, and Spike knew that the third, a pretty young thing that had been huddled on a convent floor not too long ago, was just a rather flighty sometimes-lover. Drusilla always laughed when she watched movie adaptations of the book, trying to figure out which one of the identical actresses was meant to be her.

This Drusilla didn't bring to mind images of a convent or of boring Halloween nights at the cinema, however. This Drusilla stared down at him as he fell back against a couch, her gray eyes like steel, and asked, "Why don't we ever get the pretty ones anymore?"

Her "sister," a woman that Spike knew as Beatta but whom the spellbound Harker only knew as the redheaded one, remarked with a leer, "It does not matter. They all taste the same."

Cocking her head as she continued to observe Harker, Drusilla replied, "That's not true, dear. The pretty ones are sweeter." He cried out when she suddenly grabbed a fistful of his dark hair and pulled up, revealing his throat. As though satisfied by the sound, Drusilla laughed. "But perhaps we can still have us a spot of fun with this one."

Spike remembered what Drusilla's idea of "a spot of fun" was. Harker, unfortunately, would soon find out.

* * *

"Jesus, even the sunrise hasn't quieted him down any?"

Oz looked up at Doyle as he came downstairs, balancing two mugs of coffee in one hand. "Your Aunt Maureen's a tolerant lady," the half-demon continued, "but I'm thinking her patience is bound to wear a bit thin after this. And if it boils down to me finding myself prematurely homeless or throwing that howler out into the scorching sunlight, we're gonna have us some vampiric flambé." With a quick sniff around the basement, he added, "Though I'm sure I could find some new lodgings with less mold hiding in the walls. Still, this place has its charm. The rent-free bit being one of them."

Accepting the mug that Doyle was offering and silently wondering how he could jabber on like that without having slept all night, Oz sighed, "Robbie's working on finding me a place in his building. If he does, I wouldn't mind a freeloading roommate. Especially not if you get a vision concerning lottery numbers."

"If that happens, I'll retire from the hero business, PTB be damned!" Doyle scoffed. Despite his lighthearted remarks, he flashed Spike a worried look as he took a thoughtful drink from his mug. They had originally tried giving Spike the rollaway bed that Doyle had been using, but his constant twitching and convulsing meant that he kept falling off, so they eventually conceded to roll some blankets out onto the floor and let him stay down there. About halfway through the night, they saw that Spike's fingernails, most of which had either been bitten or broken to the quick, kept raking across his flesh, and it wasn't long before he became violent enough for them to worry he might go all Oedipus on them. As such, they had taken the chains that the werewolves used during the full moon and bound him to the cage, cringing as he clawed at them all the while.

Currently, Spike still had a bit of energy that he scrounged up from somewhere and was using it to absently pull at his confines. His screaming had given away to harried outcries and mumbles, and it was likely that his throat was painfully raw. Still, judging by the wide-eyed expression on his face, his throat was the least of his concerns. "Any headway as to what's making the not-so-dearly departed act like this?" Doyle asked.

Oz shook his head, successfully concealing a wince as he drank from his mug. Doyle had apparently taken the term "Irish coffee" to brand new heights, judging by the way the liquid burned his throat. "Jordy had a look at him before he went to school. As near as his three semesters of psychology courses can figure out, Spike's had a full psychotic breakdown. He's not lashing out at anyone, so he's not homicidal, but I think we've successfully scared Jordy from wanting to pursue an actual career in psychology. Violet's spending some time in the library, seeing if she can find anything about a spell that'd turn its victim into a jibbering mess, or a demon that can do the same."

Flinching as Spike suddenly hit a new pitch with his yelling, Doyle sat himself down in a beanbag chair and brought up, "Well, from what you've told me, this Harmony girl and her demon pulled two bits of powerful magic in one night. The first act actually ripped through the fabric of time, which is supposed to be technically impossible and may have been bad enough to have been what caused to Powers to give me back my visions. And the second brought along Angelus, though not in all of his former glory. Maybe this was their real goal and the first two tries were flukes? Maybe they had really wanted to see old Spikey-pants peeing in his?"

"Harmony would probably want to _see_ Spike hurting," Oz surmised, getting up and crossing to where Spike was trembling. "She doesn't have the know-how to pull off a spell like this, which means that her vengeance demon boyfriend would have orchestrated it. So unless he was weakened by the first two spells-"

"Whoa, whoa, hold the proverbial phone," Doyle interrupted, leaning forward. "Maybe my ears are ringing from our little champion being more vocal than usual, but did I just hear you say that we're dealing with a _vengeance_ demon?"

"Yeah," Oz replied. "Didn't you know?"

"Oh, sure I knew; this shocked reaction is just my face's default expression," Doyle responded sarcastically. "If Harmony's playing nice with a vengeance demon, it'd be more logical for this to have been a _wish_ and not a spell. If Spike's her old beau, then it falls to reason-"

"You've never met Harmony," Oz said wryly. "She's a pretty straightforward type of gal. Some might call her a little dense, others might claim she fell off a short bus. Point is, if she thinks that Spike's her enemy, she's more likely to simply say, 'I wish Spike was dead' or 'I wish Spike never existed' than whatever it is that's causing him to behave this way."

Doyle thought about it for a moment before concluding, "So what we've got to figure out is whether or not this was the result of a wish, and if so, what kind of wish it was. Because maybe whoever it was that made the wish was either extraordinarily stupid and didn't know what they were doing, or worse yet, extraordinarily intelligent and knew _exactly_ what they were doing."

"The question still remains," Oz bitterly stated, looking down at the mess that was Spike, "what exactly were they trying to do?" He was about to suggest that they make a list of Spike's known enemies, but that was immediately shot down when he realized that a) that list could stretch on forever and b) that list had probably changed a good deal since the last time either of them had seen Spike. Hell, Oz and Doyle themselves could wind up on that list, and unless he had pegged Doyle all wrong, he didn't believe that the congenial man had it in him to pull this kind of mojo on Spike, at least not without saying something to the others about it. And as for other enemies, everyone from Marissa Harris to-

... wait. Oz looked up as a thought crossed his mind. He couldn't quite flesh it out yet, but he knew it'd come to him soon. "Angelus," he murmured. Seeing Doyle look up at him, Oz told him, "You said Angelus said something to you about his schedule when he was grabbing Marissa. Do you remember what it was?"

Doyle took a second to think back on it, then answered, "Said he was on a tight schedule." His eyes widened when he remembered, "Prior arrangements. That's what he said. He said he couldn't beat me up the way he'd like because he has prior arrangements with the girl. With Marissa."

Moving away from Spike, Oz put his mug down on a table and sat down across from Doyle. "We're all certain that it was Harmony and her demon that called Angelus. Rahd-that's what Harmony called him-even told me that they had been trying to summon something when they had accidentally brought back Spike's past self, so the logical conclusion would be that they were behind Angelus' stint here in Woodridge. But they didn't send Angelus after Spike. They sent him after Marissa. Why?"

"Because that's how they'd really get to Spike," Doyle breathed. "Take a girl who's terrified of vampires that Spike almost manages to befriends, then send a vampire to do horrible, unspeakable things to her. Not only would she completely forsake him, but she'd also want to seek out some vengeance against him, especially if she knew that the vampire that attacked her was associated with him."

"And seeing Angelus again," Oz realized, "and being forced to take him out, that would probably put a whammy on Spike, too. Get him tense, get him angry... and then Marissa makes a wish that... does what to him exactly?" Looking back at the vampire that was now sobbing and muttering incomprehensibly, he whispered, "You don't think he's experiencing what she did, do you? Feeling what Angelus did to her, over and over again?"

"I don't claim to be a huge expert on female physiology," Doyle replied, "but I'm guessing that feeling what Angelus did, over and over and over and _over_ again, would probably get a different kind of scream from Spike. Probably with a couple of exclamations of 'Ow, ow, you rotten bugger' thrown in."

"I suspect you might be right," Oz replied, trying to wipe away the images of Angelus buggering Spike before they became permanently engraved in his head. "But he's obviously in pain. So what kind of pain would Marissa wish on him?"

"The same kind she's felt," Doyle answered, looking at Spike with the barest trace of sympathy. "She's scared of vamps for a reason, right? So what did they do to her that made her scared of them?" When Oz confessed that he didn't know, Doyle continued, "Whatever it is, maybe it's that kind of pain and fear that she wished against him. Maybe she said something along the lines of 'I wish he knew how I felt' or 'I wish he knew what it's like to be the victim.' Something like that would seem normal enough in conversation, but a vengeance demon could have a field day with it."

Stumbling across another thought, Doyle's voice lowered into a more pensive tone as he realized, "Wait... you say you saw this vengeance demon? Was it wearing its human face, or did it have a demon appearance?"

"Demon, unless it was trying to pass as a human who fell into a vat of acid," Oz responded.

"Great!" Doyle proclaimed. "Draw me up a portrait and I'll get every contact I've made in the last few years on his tail, claiming he owes me money. That'll get anyone right anxious to find him, since I owe quite a few people a buck or two here and there."

"A couple of things wrong with that," Oz remarked dryly. "One, you _really_ shouldn't be owing people money when you've got loan sharks on your case who are willing to bring you back from the dead to get their debts repaid, and two, I'm not Angel. I don't crank out those realistic, lifelike drawings that he's had two hundred years to perfect. You'll be lucky if you could get a stick figure out of me, and it'll more likely than not be a poor, unfortunate stick figure with horrible deformities that warrant a mercy killing."

Cringing at another cry from the vampire behind them, Doyle shot the pained vamp in question a look and brought up, "Speaking of mercy killings, I'm willing to perform one right now, grand destiny or no grand des-"

At first, Oz thought that Doyle had merely cut himself off because Spike's screaming had finally caused a terrible headache. When the word "migraine" flashed through his mind, he remembered about Doyle's visions. Jumping to his feet, he moved towards the man who had dropped his mug and was now clutching his head in agony nearly akin to Spike's. Grabbing Doyle's shoulders before he could fall to the floor, Oz almost felt guilty for being the only one in the room _not_ experiencing searing pain.

After several moments that felt like forever, it seemed as though Doyle was finally coming out of it. Oz hardly realized that he was praying that it hadn't been a vision about some unconnected event, that it was just something that'll help them out with what they already had on their plates. Seeing the washed-out, sick look on Doyle's face, Oz found that he also hoped that Doyle's reaction was just his standard response to a vision and not a particularly worrisome result of a really, _really_ bad picture.

Breathing hard, it took Doyle a while before he could finally utter out the words. "Underground. Sewers. Something with a wide open space, probably in the center of town. You need to hurry up and get there before she gets here."

"Before who gets here?" Oz asked.

"Marissa," came the response. "She's on her way. Could be right now, for all I know. But she's coming, and you need to get there first and put a stop to it."

"Okay, calm down," Oz told him, trying to understand everything. "I don't have the Cliff notes to all of this, so how about you fill me in on the in-between?"

"Marissa's coming to kill Spike," Doyle spat out. "I don't much care about that, but it's what they want. Once she kills him, once she actually kills a vampire with her own hands, she'll be broken. They'll get her easily. They'll get _to_ her easily. Do worse things to her than Angelus did. And they'll send her remains somewhere in several small boxes. I don't know where they're planning on mailing these packages, but it'll lead to something _bad_."

Oz was about to ask another question when the doorbell rang. He and Doyle both looked upstairs; it seemed as though the noise set Spike off and he began screaming at full force again. Pulling himself to his feet, Doyle pushed Oz towards the backdoor. "Go. Get Robbie to help you. I'll keep her back best as I can."

"What am I supposed to do?" Oz inquired, allowing himself to be shoved towards the rear of the basement. "Stake Harmony and kill the demon? Will that turn Spike back to normal?" His experience with vengeance demons had been limited to Anya, and she hadn't been a practicing demon during the time he'd known her.

"No!" Doyle exclaimed. "You _never_ kill a vengeance demon when you want a wish reversed. If you can't get him to take off his own curse, then you need to find his charm; a pendant, usually, but sometimes a ring or some other thing that glimmers and stands out. Break that, and his power as a demon is gone. Any wishes he's fulfilled will be reversed, and he'll turn into a human. Now go!" Oz nodded and took off.

He and Doyle both hoped that the half-demon could keep Marissa away from Spike without being forced to resort to violence.

* * *

It was the middle of World War II, and he had been captured by Nazis.

He knew that he should be on the other side of the game, that he should be among the monsters that had gained released, eaten some of their captors, and were now causing bloody havoc in this tiny submarine. Instead, he found himself in the shoes of the chubby communications officer, the one who had screamed the loudest and nearly wet his pants when the Prince of Lies sat besides him. He was only eighteen years old, and he was scared that he'd never go home to see his mother and baby sister again, and that it wouldn't be the krauts that did him in, but these evil, bloodthirsty creatures that were picking them off one by one. He was nearly catatonic by the end of his voyage, and he remembered the dark-haired vampire with the English accent and the swastika on his jacket, saying something about how it was his lucky day.

Though he survived the journey in that claustrophobic vessel, he had killed himself the very next day.

* * *

It was 1697, and now he was a young boy in a small German village.

He had heard strange sounds coming from the main room and figured that his father had brought home another one of his women from the local pub. Peeking through a crack at the door to get a glimpse at tonight's attraction that, according to his father's proclamations, was named Darla, he watched as the exquisite blonde woman laughed at something his father said just before embracing him. Then the large, proud man screamed as teeth sunk into him, and Johann gasped and backed away, instinctively slamming the door shut. But his instinct proved to be his downfall, and he watched helplessly as the petite woman (who wasn't nearly as pretty up close, he saw) came into his room and marveled over what a beautiful youth he was. "Should I preserve it," she asked, "or leave it to the worms? Then again, I don't have use for a little brat at my heels."

It was over before Johann even knew that he was screaming.

* * *

He recognized the next place: it was the Bronze.

There were horrible people everywhere with some sort of skin deformities, probably marking them as part of some kind of gang. Every time he tried to get out, another one appeared and blocked the exit. Turning, he saw that the biggest of these gang members had some sort of symbol on his forehead, and he was standing on the stage and spouting off some kind speech about "the Harvest" and getting closer to "the Master." He thought it was a cult, just a crazy cult that wanted to sermonize, but when their ringleader asked for the first, he found that he was being pushed towards him, shoved towards the stage even though his (_her_, he was a _her_ this time) feet were dragging along the ground. Her eyes had searched the terrified faces of the other denizens of Sunnydale for her boyfriend, her big strong boyfriend who would surely rescue her before anything could happen, but then she felt something sharp bite into her neck and she screamed.

The last thing she saw was her boyfriend comforting another girl in his arms.

* * *

China, Boxer Rebellion.

He was smaller, faster, and (judging by his clothes) a bit more Chinese than he usually was, and he was fighting against a blond vampire. It wasn't a dance this time, but a task. A horrid duty that needed to be done and over with, especially if he wanted to get home quickly and make sure Mama was all right. But this vampire... there was something different about it. Even the enchanted sword given to him by his Watcher did little more to his opponent than land a small scratch over its eyebrow. He wouldn't even get the satisfaction of knowing that the vampire would look in the mirror and think of this fight every time it saw its reflection, since vampires _have_ no reflections. No reflections, no souls, no emotions... none but pure, manic joy, which is exactly what this one was exuding when it finally dealt the fatal blow. Though there was a part of him that couldn't believe he was dying, he couldn't deny that he had expected this, that he had felt that this was meant to happen, and as he felt the life ebbing away from him, he looked up at his murderer and tried to reach out to it on some level. He wanted to prove that this wasn't about hate, but about honor and personal responsibility, and that he hoped it would someday learn these things for itself. Instead, the only thing he could manage was, "Tell Mama... I am sorry." And when the vampire replied in a foreign tongue just before biting him, he knew that his plea fell upon deaf ears.

After all these years, Spike finally learned what the Chinese Slayer had asked of him, and he screamed long and loud.

* * *

"Marissa, hi!"

"Hi Doyle!" Marissa greeted from the other side of the door. "Can I come in?" Doyle almost hoped that he could ward her off just by not officially inviting her in, but he remembered that that only worked against vampires when she walked past him, into the house.

Even without his visions, he knew there was something off about her. Closing the door and heading in front of her to block her way towards the basement, Doyle saw that she was _much_ too happy for someone who had just been discharged from the hospital after being raped and tortured. He probably shouldn't have left her that voicemail halfway through the sleep-deprived night, but how was _he_ supposed to know that she'd wake up feeling a little murderous?

"So," Doyle began clumsily, watching as Marissa looked around the house, "Jordy's in class, his mother's at work, and Oz has some, uh, business to attend to. So I'm really hoping that you made this trip just to see little old me, heh. Would you like some coffee?"

"Where's Spike?" She asked the question with a slight smile on her face, her eyes going towards the basement door. She'd have to be absolutely deaf to not know where Spike was based on the screams, and Doyle felt his uneasiness grow when he thought he saw the smile get ever so much wider as she listened to the yelling.

"Well, that depends," Doyle replied. "Is the mace you're hiding up your sleeve for him or for me?"

She looked at him, surprised. Whether that surprise was due to his perception or to the idea that she'd use it against him, Doyle didn't know. "Oh, come on, Doyle," she responded. "Do you really think I'd hurt you?"

"If I came between you and what you plan on doing to Spike," he told her, "then yes. Yes, I think you would. In fact, I think the mace is there specifically to keep me at bay, and you've probably got a little silver charm on you to keep the werewolves back, too."

"Oh no, the mace was an all-purpose kind of thing," Marissa explained good-naturedly, taking it out of her jacket pocket. She wielded it awkwardly because of her broken fingers, but Doyle didn't doubt that she'd be able to use it if she needed to. "Silver kills werewolves, and I don't think I have it in me to kill Robbie or Oz if they're not about to eat me. But I didn't think I'd have to use it against you, since you're not going to give me any trouble." Looking up at him with innocent eyes, she asked, "Right?"

"Wrong."

With a slight frown, she began, "Doyle...."

"You can't kill Spike."

"Who said I was going to kill him?"

"I know."

"Right," she realized. "Let me guess, these little Powers That Be shoved that idea in your head along with a killer migraine. Well guess what, Doyle? Maybe you get these visions because they need to happen-"

"I get these visions so I can _stop_ them," Doyle told her sternly. "So if the Powers That Be gave me the heads-up that you'd be trying to hurt Spike, it's my responsibility to make sure that you _don't_. After all, they're the ones that pointed out what was going to happen with Angelus, and you don't think that _needed_ to happen, do you?"

"No," Marissa replied, her voice finally going cold. "But you couldn't stop it, could you? You tried, don't get me wrong, and I appreciate it. But just because you're Vision Man from the Powers That Be doesn't mean that you're given the power to stop what you see."

"It's not about power," he replied, steeling himself in case she got violent. "It's about doing what's necessary. And if it's necessary to send you back to the hospital so you won't kill the only thing that can protect us from whatever apocalypse we've got scheduled, then I'm going to have to swallow the self-loathing I'll feel and do it."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"I wouldn't mind making a wager on it."

"You'd hurt me to save Spike?"

"I do what needs to get done to make sure that I won't wake up to a rain of fire and brimstone tomorrow morning," Doyle snapped. "And if that means applying pressure to your wounds to get you to back down, then-"

Doyle was forced to stop talking when she suddenly raised the mace and pointed it at his eyes. Rather than wait for the aforementioned self-loathing to kick in, he let instinct play its course and slapped her hand away hard enough to get it to hit against the nearby coat rack. When her bandaged fingers hit the wood, she let out a yell that nearly rivaled Spike's and dropped the mace. Without allowing himself to think about it, he kicked the mace under the sofa and grabbed Marissa's arm, pulling her to sit down on the couch.

"Why are you doing this?" Marissa cried, cradling her hand as she was forced to sit down. "He's a vampire! _You_ had a gun to him just a couple of nights ago! Are you really naïve enough to go from believing he's a killer to believing he's a savior in just a few days? Why are you protecting him?"

"I'm not protecting _him_," Doyle told her, sitting besides her. "I'm protecting _you_. We had assumed that this whole thing was set in motion to stop Spike. And sure, maybe that's a part of it, but why would _you_ be at the center of it? Harmony and her vengeance demon didn't send Angelus to get Spike, but after you specifically-"

"Wait," Marissa interrupted. "Who and her what?"

"Harmony and her vengeance demon," Doyle repeated. "Demons with human faces and skills so they can blend in with society when they need to. They have nearly limitless power, but can only use it in the form of a wish made by someone who's been wronged."

"Yeah," Marissa told him hollowly. "Yeah, I know what they are. Anya was one." Seeing Doyle's perplexed glance, she realized that he probably had never met her cousin. "Xander's fiancée. Or ex, I guess. The family didn't know she was a demon at the time, but he told us just before heading off to Europe with Buffy and the other Slayers. Gave us an abridged version of everything."

Slowly piecing something together, Doyle asked, "What's her story?"

Flexing the good fingers on her injured hand to make sure they hadn't gotten hurt, Marissa absently explained, "Um, the detailed version? Because I don't really know. All I know for sure is that Xander got cold feet and left her standing at the altar. I guess they were still close or something afterwards, because she helped him and the others save the world the day Sunnydale was destroyed. She died protecting one of Xander's friends, I think."

Doyle let this sink in. He didn't know a lot about vengeance demons, but he knew that they were mostly independent, working alone and only associating with one another if their work brought them together. In fact, what little he knew about these demons made him think of a society that was set up very much like an office, so it was possible that Anya and this Rahd guy were once co-workers, or maybe even something akin to cubicle neighbors. _Or something more_, he realized.

And not only had Anya been emotionally hurt by Xander Harris after she had put enough trust in him to agree to be his wife-something that vengeance demons just _don't_ do-but she had gotten killed after following Xander into an epic battle. And now there was a vengeance demon who seemed to be set on tormenting Xander's younger cousin. This wasn't about Marissa. This wasn't even about Spike. This was, and always had been, about Xander Harris.

This was about petty revenge.

The thought hardly had time to sink into his head when Doyle's ears started ringing. He thought that maybe Spike's screams have finally caused some permanent damage to his hearing, but that was when he realized that Spike _wasn't_ screaming. The newfound silence seemed unbearably loud, and both he and Marissa turned their eyes to the basement door.

Before Marissa could make a move, Doyle stood up and told her, "Wait here." He didn't allow her to make a comment before he headed towards the basement, opened the door, and descended the stairs. There was a strange shuffling sound coming from down below, and Doyle wondered how quickly he could grab the baseball bat at the foot of the stairs before whoever it was made a wrong move.

Hearing a loud grunt, Doyle stopped and tried to peer through the spindles of the banister. What he saw made him take the rest of the stairs two at a time. "Spike!" The vampire had somehow managed to crawl towards the nearby beanbag chair and hoisted himself up to his knees.

Spike looked back at Doyle, who was cautiously approaching him. His blond hair was disheveled and his eyes were bloodshot. Though it was impossible for vampires to age, the corners of his eyes seemed to be lined with wrinkles and Doyle could see what Spike would have looked like had he been given the chance to grow into an old man. He was alarmed by how anxious that made him feel.

As though his strength threatened to give out, Spike leaned his head against the back of the chair. In a hushed whisper, he uttered, "Please... just kill me. Do the world a favor."

"Spike," Doyle said carefully, moving towards him.

"It's what you do, yeah?" Spike asked loudly, causing Doyle to stop in his tracks. "You help the helpless. That was your... your whatsit... your motto. So I'm kneeling here, with one second of sodding clarity, and I'm asking you nice, you stupid tit, kill me before it starts all over again!"

Spike's eyes went behind Doyle, and when he saw who it was coming down the stairs, he reeled backwards. He was no longer a vampire kneeling in a dirty basement, but the young girl he saw, only much younger, sitting at her living room's bay window one night and watching her pregnant mother come down the street. She was whittling a piece of wood, something her older cousin had taught her how to do during his last visit, and she wished that her mother could walk faster, because she was hungry and she wanted the pizza that the woman was carrying with her. But something else in the night was hungry, something with yellow eyes, sharp teeth, and some sort of strange ridges along its forehead. _Like a Klingon_, she had thought absently, dropping the whittling knife when the creature grabbed her mother from behind. Then it all happened too fast: the pizza slid out of the box, there was tomato sauce and blood and screaming-always screaming-and thirteen-year-old Marissa Harris was clutching the piece of wood she had in her hand, knowing somewhere in the back of her mind that the bit of lumber would help her, that all she had to do was use it. But after what seemed like forever in which she just sat there, frozen, someone else did what Marissa knew she should have done, and the creature was resorted to a pile of ashes, and the girl, the vaguely-familiar girl that she had seen around town, was helping her mother, doing what _she_ should have done, and it was too much, too much-

As Spike went off into another screaming fit, Doyle noticed movement behind him and whirled around. Marissa had come down the stairs and was now approaching Spike, the wooden baseball bat in her hand."Marissa, no!" Doyle cried out, darting for her as she passed him and putting his arms around her, hoping to pin her arms to her side.

"Let go of me!" Marissa cried, squirming in Doyle's grip. He realized that her left arm was fractured and that he could probably weaken her by bearing down on it a little, but that could cause a lot more pain than he could bear to dish out. "He's literally _asking_ for it! How can you just stand there and do nothing, knowing that he's asking for it?"

"How can _you_ stand there and want to kill him, knowing you've caused him to want death?" With a sharp push, Doyle shoved Marissa halfway across the basement, effectively coming between her and Spike. "Oz and I figured it out. You made a wish, didn't you?" Seeing no reaction other than disdain from Marissa, Doyle declared, "Look at you! You're a harbinger of pain and death, and you're trying to hide that behind the victim complex?"

"You don't know what I've been through because of him-" Marissa began.

"Because of him?" Doyle asked accusingly. "Or because of something _like_ him?"

"They're all the same-"

"No, they're _not_," Doyle shot back. "Because out of all the vampires in the world, only two of them have ever had a soul."

"Yeah, and I met them both. Not impressed."

"You've met _Spike_," he told her. "He's not exactly all sunshine and bunnies, even when he's not writhing in the agony of whatever you've wished on him. He's a dour, sarcastic, violent man, as are many men out there in the world, human or not. And that thing that... that violated you? That was so intent on hurting you the other night? That wasn't the other ensouled vamp I know."

"You think just because you call them by different names that they're not the same?"

"They're _not_," Doyle affirmed. "Look up Angel Investigations in LA. Before the whole city fell under the thrall of the evil law firm from Hell, you'll find that it accomplished a lot of good. It started out with just three of us. Cordelia Chase was the secretary. I was the one who got the visions and pointed the boss man in the right direction. And Angel was the boss man. He was a quiet guy who didn't even want to turn our business into an actual business, because all he wanted to do was help people. But because of the conditions of a certain little curse that some gypsies placed on him a couple of centuries back, he had the potential to lose that soul. When he did, he became Angelus. That vengeance demon that made you all giddy by promising all this hurt on Spike, _he_ summoned up Angelus just to do what was done to you, and he purposely neglected bringing back the soul. The soul is what separates Spike from Angelus, Marissa. Spike doesn't deserve Angelus' punishment. He might deserve his own, but I'm guessing that that isn't what he's getting."

Other than Spike's cries, the room was silent as Marissa and Doyle stared at one another. Doyle could see that Marissa had tears in her eyes, but that didn't exactly signal whether or not she'd charge at him to get to Spike in the next second. Finally, in a low, cracked voice, she mentioned. "You're a good guy. Really, you are. ...so why are you fighting me?"

Doyle knew what answer Marissa had for that. If they were currently at odds, and Marissa saw him as the "good guy," then it was clear that the answer to that question should be, "Because you're the bad guy." But Doyle didn't say that. Instead, he gently replied, "Because your logic train got derailed as it was leaving the station. It's not your fault. But we can get back at the people who did this, and we can fix what was done. So long as you _want_ things to get fixed."

Marissa remained silent for a long time. Her eyes drifted down to look at Spike, who had fallen back on the floor and was seeing something that she probably didn't even want to imagine. She thought of all of the horrors that had probably been committed by vampires since the beginning of time, and she realized that her own incident, even if it _did_ cost her a brother and turned her mother to drinking, was probably a drop in the ocean compared to everything else Spike was seeing. But he wasn't just seeing it, was he? He was _experiencing _it, tasting the terror for himself and probably slowly going mad because of it. After a while, she swallowed back her tears and asked Doyle, "What do I need to do?"

He responded with, "Just keep me company for a while."

* * *

"And you're sure that Harmony and her boyfriend are behind all this?"

"Reasonably sure," Oz answered Robbie as they lowered themselves into the sewers once again. He had called Robbie and told him everything he and Doyle had gathered together, and hadn't found out until a few minutes ago that Robbie had walked out of class to answer the call to retaliate against the things that had hurt Marissa. "Even if, by some miracle, Doyle read his vision wrong, the fact is that Harmony and Rahd are staying in an underground tunnel in the center of town, and they need to be stopped before they summon up anything else."

"And Marissa's out for Spike's blood," Robbie murmured, following Oz as he carefully made his way down the dark tunnel. Oz had managed to buy a cheap flashlight while he was waiting for Robbie to meet up with him, and that was the only thing separating them from total darkness. "I can't believe it. I mean, I _can_, but... she's not a killer. Spike didn't do anything to her. Hell, he was the one that rescued her. How can she want him dead?"

"In her mind, he probably _didn't_ rescue her," Oz replied, lowering his voice as he tried to pick up the scent of a vampire or a demon. "She was a mess when we found her, and even if she _did_ have any recollection of seeing Spike, she probably thought that he was just one of the monsters that were out to torment her. She didn't even let me touch her. The only person she's even somewhat comfortable with right now is Doyle, and that's only because she doesn't know about his demon half."

"And I hope she never finds out," Robbie whispered back. He had only met Doyle briefly, when he and Violet had met up with Spike, Oz, and Doyle to discuss what had happened to Marissa. As far as he could tell, Doyle was an all right kind of guy, though Robbie would have preferred that someone a little more formidable was there to protect Marissa. "He's not exactly a gladiator, but she needs someone around that she thinks she can trust. If she ever finds out that he's part demon, she'll probably go even more nuts than she might be now."

"Doyle's a good guy for her to have at her side," Oz informed him. "He might not look like much, but look up Brachen demons some day. Scary guys, and he inherited some of their powers. Did you know he could make spikes come out of his face?"

"Really?" Robbie asked, surprised. "Like that guy from _Hellraiser_?" When Oz nodded, Robbie remarked, "Huh, I guess there's more to him than meets the eye." That said, he took note of Oz's reticence and the two of them continued in silence.

After a moment, Oz stopped. Lifting his head, he sniffed at the air and remarked, "I smell something. I think it's... I think it's them." After another inhalation, he grimaced and added, "Well, at least we'll be sure to catch them unprepared."

Robbie followed along after him as Oz quickened his pace. "Hey," he called in a hushed voice. "Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" After sprinting a few yards, Robbie picked up on the scent, too. "Oh man, is that what I think it is?"

"Take heart, Robbie," Oz told him. "They're about to get screwed in more ways than one."

Trying not to think too hard about that statement, the two of them continued on towards the tunnel. They soon came across a wooden door, and Oz found himself quietly amused when he slowly opened it and discovered that it creaked far less than the door at the television studio. He was less amused by the sound of bedsprings creaking and the muffled moaning of a former school chum of his.

With a glance at Robbie, Oz took a deep breath to steel himself. In one swift motion, he loudly broke off a jagged plank of the wood from the door and headed towards the bed that was, judging by the noise, around the corner from a partition. In the dimness, he saw Harmony quickly cover herself up with a bed sheet as her boyfriend sat up, gaping at the surprising intrusion.

"Didn't mean to interrupt," Oz told them, sensing Robbie coming in from behind him. "Well, actually, I guess I did. Mind if we have a little chat?"

"Okay, let me run this by you," Harmony told him sharply, crossing her arms over her chest. "You knock, then you wait for someone to answer the door. You don't just break open the door and barge in-"

"You do when the piece of door you're holding can serve as a pretty effective stake," Oz shot back.

"You're threatening me in my own lair?!" Harmony exclaimed. Disgusted, she turned away from the two intruders and remarked, "Just for that, I'm not going to have that chat you wanted to have with me."

"I don't want to speak with _you_, Harmony," Oz replied. "As a matter of fact, the stake's here to shut you up for good. This isn't about you, and it was never about you. You're filling the same role you've filled since high school, and you only merit killing right now because I've had a screaming vampire in my basement last night. The lack of sleep's made me cranky."

"Spike's been keeping you up at n-night?" Sadrahd asked, a small smile spreading across his lips. It made his face almost boyish, and Oz wondered if that was the face Marissa saw when she was making the wish that was whittling away at Spike, the face she saw when she opened her eyes in the hospital and thought she had a friend in this creature. "What c-could possibly make the b-big, bad Spike act that way?"

"Maybe it was the wish Xander's cousin made," Harmony offered.

"Thank you, Harmony," Sadrahd replied sarcastically. "I hadn't th-thought of that." Looking back at the surprise visitors, he then asked, "How _is_ M-Marissa doing these days?"

"Say that name again," Robbie told him, narrowing his eyes threatening, "and it'll be the last thing you'll _ever_ say."

Sadrahd offered him a very long, considering look that was filled with a quiet sort of humor before finally stating, "F-funny. That's very c-close to what I told _her_ when she said a certain name, just before slamming the childish bitch against a wall-"

The next chain of events happened too quickly for anyone to make sense out of until later. Robbie lunged for the vengeance demon, and Oz found himself being shoved backwards by an invisible force. Realizing that Sadrahd was knocking them both away, he groaned as he landed on a dresser and crashed against various unicorn knickknacks. Robbie, however, was not flung back, and it was this realization that made Sadrahd widen his eyes and Harmony jump out of bed, shrieking as the young werewolf crashed on top of her boyfriend.

Grabbing the demon's throat, Robbie growled out, "The bad part about asking for help from a faerie on the same night as plotting the kidnapping and rape of one of her friends is that you tend to invoke her wrath."

"A Sidhe can't stop me!" Sadrahd sputtered.

"Maybe," Robbie conceded. "But a werewolf with a protection spell on him? Consider yourself stopped."

Just as he raised a fist to strike at Sadrahd, Robbie felt a burning pain at his neck. With a yell, he tried to buck it off, realizing that he had been bitten. With a wicked smirk on his face, Sadrahd maneuvered himself out of Robbie's grasp, watching on as Harmony distracted his opponent. "P-protection spell," he mocked. "And _what_, exactly, is it s-supposed to protect you from?"

"Mystical attacks would be my guess," Oz remarked, just making his way up to his feet. "Or real danger. It definitely wouldn't recognize something like Harmony as anything he'd need protection against."

Hearing the insult but not recognizing it for the provocation it really was, Harmony raised her head from Robbie's throat and whirled around to face Oz. "_What?_ Okay, you are _so_ asking for an ass-kicking!" Even as Sadrahd called her name to stop her, Harmony released Robbie and darted for Oz.

Seeing one of Oz's hands come up and remembering about the piece of wood he had, Harmony smirked at him as she grabbed his forearm just before the object in his hand could stab at her. Seeing Oz's quietly amused expression, though, she looked down at what she had stopped. In his hand was nothing more than a flashlight.

Confused, Harmony didn't even manage to see as Oz's other hand came out from behind his back and staked her. She felt the pressure against her chest and wondered briefly if he had managed to get his hands on the plastic stake that that Marissa girl had stabbed her with a few nights ago. Before she could come to some conclusion about that, her vision got grainy before altogether dimming out.

Shaking his arms free of the dust from Harmony's unceremonious departure, Oz turned his attention back to Sadrahd. The small vengeance demon was sitting on the floor, seeming more exposed than one would think even given his nudity, staring at the spot where Harmony had been standing only seconds before.

"You bastard," the vengeance demon finally hissed, glaring at Oz with pure malice in his eyes. His face was taking on its demonic appearance, leading Oz to believe that he was getting ready to unleash a greater store of his power. "Why do Harris and his stupid friends always manage to take away the things that matter to me? This has _nothing_ to do with you, but you'd seek to destroy-"

He was cut off by a hard blow to the head with a lamp that Robbie had snatched off the night table. As Sadrahd fell heavily to the floor, Robbie muttered, "What is it with all of you bad guys and your self-pity?"

Seeing Sadrahd fall, Oz's eyes fell upon a pendant around the demon's neck. Before he could say anything, Robbie seemed to notice it as well and snatched it away from him, yanking at the thin gold chain as he rose to his feet. Though the hit to the head took most of the fight out of him, Sadrahd glared up at Robbie. "G-give that back! You d-d-don't, you don't... you don't know what you're d-d-doing."

"I'd say he has a pretty fair idea," Oz broke in, stepping towards the pair. "Breaking a vengeance demon's amulet gets rid of its powers. Things get put back the way they're supposed to be, and the demon turns human. It turns into one of us."

"One of _y-you_?!" Sadrahd sneered, his eyes meeting Robbie's. "Is that w-what you really think? You think M-Marissa is going to wake up f-from some kind of magic-induced trance and realize you're still human? Th-that she'll open her eyes and-"

His words broke off when Robbie sent a particular hard kick to his ribs. The force sent Sadrahd reeling back against a wall. Combined with the earlier hit with the lamp, this left him unconscious. Seeing Oz looking at him quizzically, Robbie looked away and quietly remarked, "I told him not to say her name."

The two of them said nothing to one another for some time. Finally, Oz pointed towards the deep red amulet that Robbie had in his hand. "Better get rid of that before he comes to. I don't want to be the jinx and say that that was all too easy-"

"Speak for yourself," Robbie told him. "_You're_ not the one who got bitten by a vampire. Didn't think they'd go for werewolf blood." Before Oz could ask him how the bite was doing, Robbie took a deep breath and said, "Here goes."

With that, he smashed the amulet against the night table, shattering it.

* * *

"... and then there was a green flash, and the Gem of Amara was gone."

Marissa was sitting on Jordy's back porch, listening as Doyle told her the story of the mystical ring that Angel had destroyed. He had led her away from the basement and made her a cup of hot chocolate to calm her down, then ushered her into a chair on the back terrace in hopes that the breeze will jar her out of it. His constant talking about his past adventures with Angel also served as a way to get her mind off of her hostile intentions towards Spike. "That's it?" Marissa asked as Doyle took a sip of his beer. "He just... broke this ring that had the power to turn him invincible and walked away?"

"And he made a few cracks about my mother, too," Doyle recollected with a smirk. "But yeah, that's the gist of it. He never wanted to keep the ring safe so he could use it himself. He just didn't want it falling into the wrong hands." Doyle mentally patted himself on the back. He had started the story without remembering that the lead antagonist had been Spike, but he had managed to keep their currently-traumatized friend out of his tale.

Marissa remained silent, and Doyle's mind raced with something else to say. Keeping her quiet for too long could send her thoughts back to that place that involved a lot of crying and violence, neither of which were things that Doyle was too keen on witnessing. Before long, she looked down and quietly stated, "That doesn't sound like him at all."

"Who?" Doyle asked. "Angel? I'm guessing you haven't heard a whole lot about him-"

"Angelus," Marissa brought up. Doyle's mouth closed when he realized that she had been comparing the hero of his story with the thing that had raped and tortured her. So much for him keeping her mind off of evil vampires. "It's... weird. Two different names... two different people. But they're not really different at all, are they? Or people, for that matter?"

"But they once were," Doyle told her gently. "Angel was once just a man living in Ireland, making mistakes and having some innocent fun, just like most humans. And then he got himself sired and became Angelus, and the fun stopped being innocent. But Angel came back. Just like how Spike's human self managed to come back. Even if Spike really doesn't seem to have been the perfect example for morality back in his mortal days."

"He was a poet," Marissa murmured quietly, still not looking at Doyle. "He's allowed to be a little eccentric."

The words didn't sound particularly forgiving, so Doyle wasn't sure if "poet" was a euphemism for something else or if she was simply rambling. Before he could bring himself to ask, he heard the kitchen phone ringing from inside. "Stay here," he said to Marissa, leaving her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder as he stood up. "I'll chase the telemarketers away with lots of colorful language."

In the kitchen, Doyle made his way to the phone hanging on the wall and answered it. He was dimly aware of Marissa having gotten up and followed close behind him. The idea of her wanting to be close to him was a nice one, but he knew what it really was. Since she considered him to be the only other human in the vicinity, she didn't feel wholly safe when she wasn't with him. That, too, was a nice thought. "Hello?"

"Doyle," Oz's voice said on the other line. "Mission accomplished."

"Wait, what, that easy?"

"Don't say that," Oz replied. "That's like saying, 'What's the worst that can happen?' When you're handed something on a silver platter, take it and run before someone uses it to bash you upside the head."

"Take it and run," Doyle mused. "Nice motto. Sounds a bit like my own personal credo, only with an emphasis on the 'run.'" Seeing Marissa peering at him quizzically, he leaned back against the wall and asked, "Can you give me specifics? You didn't kill the thing, did you?"

"After you told me not to?" Oz asked, sounding amused. "So long as Spike's out of it, I'm guessing that we don't have to worry about any unnecessary deaths. Though I'll admit, Robbie _did_ do a number on him. When he finally does wake up, he'll find that he's an ordinary human with the magical potential of a wooden spoon. As for Harmony, she finally got dusted, so score one for Team Oz."

After a bit more idle chitchat, Doyle hung up the phone and looked at Marissa. Trying to sum up the phone call as best as he could, he remarked, "Ding-dong, the she-vamp's dead. Along with that, they managed to destroy the vengeance demon's power source. While it doesn't kill him, it turns him back into a normal human."

"Back?"

Realizing that she probably didn't know much about the various species of demons, he explained, "Most vengeance demons were human once, way back when. Then they do something that usually involves casting a remarkably strong spell to get back at someone, attracting the attention of the big boss man over at Vengeance Demons, Incorporated, or whatever they call themselves. He offers to turn them into demons so they can live for centuries exacting their vengeance of choice. Breaking the power source that he gives them-usually an amulet of some kind-turns them back into mere mortals."

After taking a moment to allow this to sink in, Marissa looked away from Doyle. "Human once," she murmured. "I thought it was just vamps. Vamps and werewolves. And now demons, too?"

"_Some_ demons," Doyle corrected. "Some are born demons, others are given that power by a demonic higher-up." Gently, as though getting her used to the idea, he added, "And others are half-and-half, you know. With a demon father and human mother. Or the other way around."

Marissa gave no sign of having heard what he had said. Her arms wrapped loosely around herself, her eyes took on a faraway appearance as she muttered, "All of the monsters have a little bit of human in them."

Doyle looked at her for some time before quietly bringing up, "Or maybe all the humans have a little bit of monster in them." He didn't like the way the concept made her furrow her brow, but it was too late to retract the words now.

Their silence was broken by a sound at the kitchen door. The both of them looked up to see Spike stagger into the room. He was still unusually pasty and skittish, and had an odor of dried sweat about him. Still, he tried to retain some of his former dignity by adjusting the collar on his trench coat, eyeing the pair suspiciously. When the vampire moved his arms, Doyle saw that his wrists were a bright, angry red, signaling that he had probably used a surprising amount of strength to break free of his chains. Wiseass remarks would probably not be wise.

"Right then," Spike told them, his voice hoarse. "What'd I miss?"

* * *

Several nights later, Spike was surprised by whom he saw at the door of his crypt.

He was packing up his few possessions into various boxes. He didn't much like the idea of moving, especially not into a basement with a cage, chains, and other makings for a torture chamber, but he couldn't deny that there was a certain logic to it. The ghost problem was steadily increasing, and they had even grown ballsy enough to come into his crypt on more than one occasion, so it would just be simplest to stick with Oz and the others until something more appealing found its way to him. He wasn't sure what could be _less_ appealing than having Doyle for a roommate, but at least they shared a love of liquor. That made things a bit more bearable.

Tossing a few worn paperbacks that he doubted he'd ever get around to reading into a box, Spike first noticed the scent of body spray before he was even aware of another presence. Knowing of only one person who'd wear such a thing and who also knew of the location of his crypt, he smiled grimly and turned around. "Well, if it isn't Aladdin. Come by to do some more well-wishing, pup?"

Marissa stood at the doorway, looking down. Spike noticed that she hadn't even looked him in the eye since the night she had pushed his past self back into its proper time in order to keep the world from collapsing into chaos. A selfish, old part of Spike hoped that that had to do with shame. Another part was _worried_ that it had to do with the same.

He eyed her silently. Her bruises had healed quite well, and she retained only a few of her major scratches from her expedition with Angelus. There were injuries that he couldn't see, of course, injuries that were lodged deep in her psyche and also hidden beneath her clothing, but it wasn't likely that he would be able to assess either of those in the near future. Still, there was something hopeful about her. She wore body spray. Either she was putting up the illusion of normalcy, or she was actually trying to smell nice for someone. Maybe she was slowly making amends with Robbie after all.

He tried to be as patient as he could, but the quietude of the cemetery did nothing to jar her into talking. With a sigh, he sat himself on the edge of his sofa and looked up at her. "Got something on your mind, pet, or is graveyard dirt just _that_ fascinating?"

Spike's bluntness did little to soothe her, but it did make Marissa want to say what she thought she needed to say so she could hurry up and get out of there. Nervously licking her lips, she raised her eyes only enough to look at Spike's knees, still unable to make eye contact with him.

At length, she finally stammered, "I, uh... that, um... that vengeance demon thing. I talked it over with Doyle, and Oz was helping us fill in the blanks. Apparently, he-the demon, not Oz-has it out for Xander because he blames him for what happened to Anya. We don't know who... or, ah, why he cares about Anya, but he was using me as a way to, you know... to get at Xander. Uncle Tony-that's Xander's dad-his cancer disappeared, so... I'm thinking the demon was feeling out different ways to destroy the family before he settled on me for some reason." Though it didn't need saying, it felt right for her to add, "So it was... _his_ fault. What happened to me. His. He planned it so I'd blame you, and I guess, I dunno... when I realized I drove the big hero insane and thus doomed the world, it'd probably make me more than a little crazy myself and I might do something that'd hurt Xander real bad."

Spike eyed her carefully as she kept her gaze steadily fixed on his kneecaps. After a moment, he realized that she still needed a little prodding and sighed. "Right then, so here's the bit where you apologize and I let you know that all this bollocks comes with the territory of being a champion-"

"No." He blinked at her interruption. After a difficult swallow, she explained, "No, you see, that's just it. I didn't come here to tell you I'm sorry." Finally tearing her eyes away from neutral territory and really _looking_ at him, she declared, "I came here to tell you I'm _not_ sorry."

Plowing ahead after registering Spike's stunned silence, Marissa declared, "I wish I was. Really, I wish I could tell you that the guilt I feel over making you scream and cower and flinch keeps me up at night. But the truth is, when I lay in bed and start thinking about what was done to me, I think back to the way you looked chained up in that basement, that quivering mess that couldn't even force out a half-decent insult, and I smile. And I roll over. And I fall asleep. You're still just a monster to me, Spike. But you're a monster that I managed to beat. I might have gone about it the wrong way, but I managed to make you taste real fear, and now... now I'm not afraid of you anymore. The hate's still there, but the fear... it's gone."

Spike gazed up at her quizzically before slowly rising to his feet. When he took a step towards her, he saw that she didn't retreat. She was right. Somehow, in her mind, her wish against him had translated into a triumph, and he was simply a weak, piddling fool. The poor kid was even more off her rocker than she had started off.

"That's all well and good, then," Spike told her, shrugging his shoulders. He was still sore and more than a little drained from the hours of torture she had inflicted on him, and he wanted to grab her about the shoulders and violently shake her until he proved that it _wasn't_ all well and good, but he had managed to learn a tremendous amount of self-restraint over the years. Never one to conceal his true feelings unless it suited him, he admitted, "Part of me wishes that you were a Slayer so I could give you a good beating as a form of payback, but I'll rein that bit of me in. So I'm still a monster. Fine. I suppose that after what Angelus-"

"_Don't_ say that name!"

"Avoiding the issue's not exactly conducive to your road to recovery," he told her sharply. "Believe me, I get sick to my stomach every time I remember what I managed to see on that video he sent, but it's not going to do you any good to walk away from this lesson with your head up your ass, lumping me 'n Oz 'n Hercules 'n the Pixie together in the same category as Angelus. Who, by the way, was the vampire equivalent of my grandfather, and I was the one who staked him in cold blood. I committed patricide for you, you know. And Oz had to go and off one of his old school chums, and Hercules needed a blood transfusion after that psycho bint took a bite out of him, and the Pixie worked herself into an emaciated wreck from worry and from using her hocus-pocus. We ignored the upcoming apocalypse and started running about like chickens with our heads cut off, all for an ungrateful little brat who's still got the gall to call us monsters."

Spike's brusque assessment of the situation received nothing but a smoldering gaze from Marissa. After a moment in which the two of them stared at one another, Spike realized what Marissa had said earlier. She and Doyle had talked things out... with Oz. "Oh," Spike realized curtly. "So you've made nice with the werewolves, have you? Can I hazard a guess and say that the Sidhe's welcome to make an appearance at your next Tupperware party, too?"

"It almost sounds like you're jealous."

"No," he replied, perhaps a little too quickly. "It's not jealousy so much as it's...." Turning away from her and going back to his packing, he dismissively queried, "What do I care who you're chummy with these days? All else aside, you're still a female, and I was never able to wholly figure out you lot no matter _how_ hard I tried. I wish you and Hercules a bright future with as many kids as you can squeeze out before the world ends, and I-"

"I'm leaving town."

Out of everything Marissa had told him so far tonight, this was the one thing that actually made a shred of sense. He glanced up at her from the corner of his eye, and saw that she was looking down again. "Not forever," she amended. "Just... for a while. I don't know how long that'll be. I can't finish this semester; don't know if I can look at people the same way again after seeing my name in a newspaper a couple of days ago. Mom can't leave because of her job and everything, and... I don't know. Maybe I just need to be away from things for a few days... or a few weeks. Or maybe that's the last thing I need. Maybe it's just what I want. And we don't really get what we want too often in life, do we?"

"No," Spike spoke quietly. "And if we do, we're usually labeled as evil." Seeing her fold up a little at his statement, his voice became a little more gentle as he told her, "Get out of here, then. This ain't no place for a girl trying to figure out the complexities of moral ambiguity. If you care for your mum in the slightest, though, you'll do your best to either convince her to go with you or you'll come back to see her before the end. Because let me tell you, the last time I saved the world-"

"-my hometown was turned into a smoking crater," Marissa finished. "Yeah. I kinda remember." Wrapping her arms around herself, she looked up, though she still couldn't be said to have been looking at Spike. "I won't be far. Won't say where I'm going, since this place might be filled with otherworldly spies, but I'll make it a point not to follow handsome men into dark alleyways or anything."

"You think me handsome, do you?" Spike smirked.

"I was referring to the other vampire, actually," she replied.

"Goddamned Angelus," he muttered.

She said nothing for a moment, as though needing the time to get over a silent but strong reaction to hearing the vampire's name again. Finally turning away, she casually stated, "See you around, Spike."

Not knowing how jokingly he was speaking, he thinly responded, "God, I hope not."

* * *

He was tired of walking, and he no longer had the power to make any of these damned motorists stop.

All he had were the clothes on his back, and it was a strange feeling. He usually had all of the power of the world on his shoulders, and now he was reduced to nothing. Because of that boy. That good-for-nothing, self-serving, tyro werewolf.

His fingers reached up towards where his pendant had been hanging for the past 1,350 years. It was a cruelly ironic thing, to lose the power of a vengeance demon and suddenly having someone that you wanted swift, direct vengeance on.

They had killed his girlfriend, and then they had taken away the only thing that made him unique. And to add insult to injury, they hadn't even deemed him worthy enough to kill. He had been left alive, wandering a world that his mortal self had abandoned centuries ago.

First things first. He'd get to the werewolf eventually, but there was still the matter of unfinished business. Spike. For Harmony's sake, he'd have to finish what he had started with Spike. Not only was it a matter of principle, but it was also logical. He was the strongest of the group physically, and so putting him down would _have_ to be the first step. Then he'd do away with the faerie, then the older werewolf. Then he'd tie Robbie Wilson down and make him watch while he showed Marissa Harris _real_ torture.

He heard a car driving up behind him on the dirt road and turned around, hoping it wouldn't be like the last few dozen and speed past him, sending dust flying into his face. There was no reason for it to stop. He was now completely unremarkable, nothing but a small, plain man with a fiery look in his eyes that were rimmed with dark lines from lack of sleep. Still, he quickly relearned the human tendency to hope for the hopeless, and he stuck out his thumb in the classic tradition of hitching for a ride.

To his surprise, the car slowly rolled to a stop a few yards ahead of him. He stared at it for a moment, wondering if it was filled with cruel, drunken college kids who would race away as soon as he got close enough to touch the door handle. Realizing that the driver was the only one inside the vehicle, he jogged towards the lowering driver's side window and called out, "Th-thank you. Thanks for s-stop-stopping."

He was jarred into silence and motionlessness when he saw that the driver was familiar to him. Rather than make him feel that superior sense of sadism that he had felt when he saw her before, he felt as though a heavy weight was pressing against his gut. Here he was, powerless and in the middle of nowhere, and the only person in sight was Marissa Harris.

"Looks like you're in a bit of a jam, Genie," she remarked, looking over his dusty clothes with no emotion on her face. "We must be the two smartest people in town, if we're hightailing it. I hope you're not aiming on coming back, Rahd. Are you?"

"Sh-shut up," he replied harshly, in spite of himself. His mouth and brain didn't seem to catch on to what his body already knew: he was, until she left him alone, entirely at her mercy. He hadn't had to rely on physical strength in a long, long time, and even then he was constantly bested. Igniting the anger of a girl behind the wheel of a potential two-ton killing machine wouldn't exactly be a sign of his intelligence. "The last I r-remember, this giant spit of l-land was a free country. If I feel like coming back, it's no business of yours." Bitterly, he added, "B-besides, what harm can I do? I'm not Sadrahd the v-vengeance demon anymore. I'm R-R-Roderick. Just Roderick." Muttering more to himself, he decided, "I should l-look into getting a surname."

Cocking her head at his story, Marissa had an amused expression on her face that made Roderick want to throw her and her stupid car off the nearest cliff. Unfortunately, he no longer had that ability and cliffs were nowhere to be seen in the vicinity. "Well," she finally stated, "if you want, I could ask Xander what Anya had done when she was in this predicament."

"I t-told you you're not to say that-"

"Anya, Anya, Anya," Marissa heatedly taunted. "What are you going to do now, smack me? Go ahead. I'm not generally violent, but for some strange reason, I'm willing to break the rules in your case. Give me the slightest reason to dish out at least some of what was done to me and Doyle, and you'll be another John Doe in a hospital bed."

Her threats made him remember why he had chosen her for his revenge against Xander, and why Xander merited vengeance to begin with. "Humans are disgusting," he hissed, finally noting that Marissa had been right about what she had said in the hospital: his stutter had a tendency to disappear when he was truly, purely angry. "Anyanka and I were both ripped from our destined legacies, and she learned to cope. She sought her own immortality through marriage and children. I'll find mine by proving myself to D'Hoffryn once again."

"Marrying Xander wasn't about immortality," Marissa told him evenly. "_She_ pursued him, and then _he_ asked to marry her. She agreed to it because she loved him-"

"Anyanka was beyond _love_!" Roderick screamed. "Her mortal heart had been broken so many times that she had forsaken such a primitive, useless emotion, would not even accept it from members of her own demon class, and to think that it would resurface for one as plain as-"

"Well, there's the truth," she interrupted. "Someone had a little crush that wasn't reciprocated, and just because you think that Xander's inferior to you and yet-"

"He _is_ inferior!" Roderick nearly screeched.

He cried out sharply when Marissa suddenly threw the car door open, hitting him hard in the lower abdomen and sending him falling onto the dirt road. He looked up at her, wondering what she was going to do when she stepped out of the car, wondering if he had managed to teach her a thing or two about how to make one's enemies pay, wondering if he would be able to throw grit in her face and run off. Instead, he noticed that she hadn't gotten up from the car, and she seemed content in the knowledge that she had brought that bright flash of fear to his face. In that moment, Roderick came to understand what the blow was meant to say. _He_ was now inferior. _He_ was now a disgusting human. And if he tried to do anything about it, she had it within her power to stop him.

"Xander isn't inferior," she told him quietly, almost robotically. "Xander saves the world from people like you. And yeah, you might be human right now, and yeah, that might be enough to keep me from doing to you what was done to that Harmony bitch you were sleeping with. But if I hear even an idle rumor that you've been looking into casting spells or even wearing a rabbit's foot or some other good luck charm... I know two werewolves and a vampire who'll gladly eat your heart."

Roderick stared at the chillingly aloof girl as she slammed her car door closed. From where he was on the ground, he could only see the top of her head and wondered if she was getting ready to drive off, leaving him with the disconcerting image of Oz, Robbie, and Spike feasting on his entrails. Not wanting her to have the final say, he pushed himself up onto his knees and quickly called out, "And y-you'd let that happen? Y-you'd willingly align yourself w-with the monsters that you're so f-fright-frightened of?"

Marissa said nothing for a long time, staring straight ahead at the road and both of her hands clamped onto the wheel. Finally, in a low voice, she murmured, "All of the monsters have a little bit of human in them. And all of the humans have a bit of monster in them." Turning her head slowly, she gave Roderick a dead gaze as she told him, "This monster that you see in front of you, Rod? _You_ created it. So be proud."

Without waiting for a response, Marissa took off and left the former vengeance demon coughing in the dust.


	7. Welcome to Wherever You Are

_Welcome to wherever you are  
This is your life, you made it this far  
Welcome, you've got to believe  
That right here, right now, you're exactly where you're supposed to be  
Welcome to wherever you are_

-"Welcome to Wherever You Are" by Bon Jovi

* * *

_  
_"You know, I've heard of having night owl roommates, but this is ridiculous," Doyle proclaimed.

"Shut up," Spike shot back, sipping blood from a mug as he watched television. "You can wait until commercials to start blabbering." When Doyle once again complained about the volume of the TV, Spike groaned and leaned back in the armchair. "This is worse than living with Harris."

Sitting up in the small cot in Jordy's basement, Doyle gave Spike a quizzical glance. "Whoa, wait. You used to live with Marissa?"

"The other Harris," Spike mumbled, knowing what was to come. "Her kin. Now keep quiet while the telly's on, yeah?"

"I still can't believe she's gone," Doyle remarked, purposely ignoring Spike's request for silence. "It's been what, two weeks or something? Her mother hasn't heard from her at all. You know her mother thinks I'm sleeping with her?"

"Her mum thought I shagged her, too," Spike absently replied. "And it's hasn't been more than a week. Now stuff it, Irish, before I put your head on a plaque and use it for decoration." In truth, it had been just about ten days since he had last seen Marissa, but he only knew that because he was marking down the days since he had moved into Jordy's basement. If Doyle was going to keep up with his incessant prattling, though, Spike might just be tempted to break into his hidden stash of money and actually pay rent somewhere.

"Well, I hope Elsie was appropriately disgusted at the thought of _you_ being close with her daughter," Doyle stated. "She's asked me to call her by her first name. She seems like a nice enough lady, I suppose."

"When she's sober," Spike agreed absently. "And she had me call her Elsie, too. Now why don't you take care of your hard-on for little MIA Harris, and let me alone?" He was surprised when the man sitting behind him actually quieted down. It either meant that Spike was finally getting through to his thick skull, or that something was wrong. Since he didn't consider Doyle a brain by any means, Spike peered over his shoulder to glance back at him.

The vampire jumped from his chair when he saw that Doyle had his head in his hands, the veins in his neck standing out as he gritted back screams of pain. He had never actually seen Doyle in the throes of one of his visions, though he now thought that the man he had once met who imitated the half-demon was understating the ferocity of the pain. He didn't know what to do or what Doyle would need when he came out of it, so he quickly got what he would have wanted were he in the man's position and stood besides him, waiting for the vision to pass.

When Doyle's sight cleared enough to allow him back into the here and now, he saw Spike holding a flask out towards him. He knew from experience that it would do nothing to dull the pain, but at least Spike had the right idea. Grabbing the flask away from the vampire, he unscrewed the top and gulped down the burning whiskey within. It made him shudder, but at least it helped draw him back into himself quickly.

"Well, it's about bloody time the Powers started using you to our benefit," Spike remarked, having crouched besides Doyle. He was looking up at him curiously, hoping for a bit of action as a result of this development. After the wish Marissa had made, he had felt edgy and just generally off. With more nightmares (or, as it were, daymares) than he cared to admit and a greater tendency to flinch at the things he saw on television, he was eager to get back on track with this entire saving the world gig. At least he'd be able to take out his aggressions on something tangible rather than sit around and let his old demons fester.

"Glad to see you're so concerned about whether or not my brains are leaking out of my eyeballs," Doyle remarked bitterly, his voice hoarse from pain and from the fiery liquid he had just drank. "They're not, are they? That would be highly unfashionable."

"You haven't enough brains for them to leak," Spike replied. "I'm giving you three seconds to get your bearings straight before you give me a thorough description of the beastie I need to find and kill, so use your time wisely."

"No beastie," Doyle remarked. "At least, nothing of the scary teeth and claws persuasion. I can't tell you what it was, really. I swear, my visions are a whole lot more vague than they were back before I died. Maybe Cordelia messed them up somehow. At any rate, I saw you, and I saw you walking along the rim of some kind of hole. It was more like a crater. There was debris, and abandoned vehicles, and I think there might've been some kind of tents off to the side or something-"

"Sunnydale," Spike realized. "After it was destroyed, the military set up some kind of encampment there. My understanding is that they gave up their attempt at uncovering the entire story a few years ago, though they dug up some survivors and other crazies. I haven't been back to old Sunny-D since I got myself turned to ashes back in '03, so I'm guessing this calls for another journey north, eh?"

"Yeah," Doyle answered quietly. "Yeah."

After a moment, Spike looked at him sternly and asked, "Doyle, what aren't you telling me?"

Doyle said nothing for a while, then finally turned his eyes to meet Spike's. "Nothing. It's just... I didn't get the whole picture. Just you, then something comes in like interference on a TV screen, then you're gone."

"...what do you mean, 'gone?'"

"I mean gone, disappeared, splitsville," Doyle told him impatiently. "One minute you're there, then the next something comes through and takes you away. I don't know what it is or what it means; I don't know if the Powers are trying to tell me that you die or that you end up vanishing or that something pushes you through some kind of portal. Like I said, my visions used to be pretty cut and dry. What you see is what you get. Now it's like the antenna's busted."

"Well either fix the rabbit ears or get with the digital age!" Spike exclaimed. "There's a big chunk of your vision missing, and...." He trailed off, realizing something. After a moment, he rose to his feet and looked at the time on top of the cable box. He had six hours until sunrise. Could he make it there and back in six hours?

Seeing Spike move away and head towards the chair on which he had hung his trench coat, Doyle slowly pulled himself out of bed. His throat felt dry, and he knew that taking another draught from the flask would do nothing to alleviate it. There was something else that he had neglected to tell Spike, something that he wasn't sure he _could_ tell Spike, as he didn't know what it meant himself. "What are you doing?" Doyle asked.

For a while, it seemed like Spike wouldn't answer. When he finally had his jacket on, he shot Doyle a single glance before heading towards the backdoor. "The only way to know what bit you missed," Spike told him, "is to watch the program again." Doyle watched the vampire go, but he didn't follow after him.

He had more important things on his mind than Sunnydale.

* * *

Violet hurriedly pulled her short hair back into a ponytail as she moved towards her front door.

It was nearly two in the morning, and she had only set herself down to sleep about fifteen minutes before. It was the first time in weeks that she went to bed at a somewhat decent hour, as her recent adventures with the werewolves and vampires in her life had thrown her sleep schedule off in a major way. And now with the flurry of knocks jarring her into wakefulness, she felt a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach as she wondered over what new catastrophe Spike would need her "hocus pocus" for _this_ time.

Gazing through the peephole, she was surprised by whose distorted image she saw on the other side, swaying impatiently as he waited for her to open up. Undoing the locks, she opened the door and stood back. "Doyle? What happened?"

Shaking his head, Doyle anxiously pushed his way inside. Closing the door and flicking on the light switch, Violet only became more concerned by his behavior. As far as she knew, Doyle was the talkative, good-natured one of the bunch; out of the members of "Monsters Anonymous," he was the least likely to simply storm into someone's apartment in the middle of the night without a word.

She said nothing as he sat down on the couch, then stood up again. Obviously agitated, he ran a hand through his black hair before whirling around to face her. Finally, he cryptically proclaimed, "I think I've got it."

"Got what?" Violet asked. He didn't answer. Instead, he began looking around her living room before sitting himself down at her desk. Trying not to be impatient, Violet crossed her arms over her chest and walked towards him. There was something off about him, something about his very presence that made her... jittery. It wasn't necessarily a bad feeling, but she wasn't exactly jumping for joy about it, either. "Doyle, what've you got? A cold? A winning lottery ticket? Try to be a little more specific."

He had found a notepad and a pencil and appeared to be doodling some sort of large shape. It almost began to look like an oval, but he erased the top portion and tried to make a jagged outcropping. Shaking his head, he erased it again. "I don't know," he finally answered.

"You don't know," Violet echoed. "You woke me up at two a.m. because you felt the need to tell me you think you've got something, but you don't know what it is." Rolling her eyes and trying to take it lightly, she remarked, "If Spike were here, he'd say that whatever you've got, it definitely isn't an excess of brains."

"Spike's gone off," Doyle told her absently, still sketching and erasing. "Probably off on some kind of mystical journey. Or off to his death. I don't really know."

Startled now, Violet uncrossed her arms and gaped at Doyle. "What do you mean, 'off to his death?' Isn't that kinda something you should know for certain?" Crouching down besides him, she looked up and thought she knew what had led to his disturbed mannerisms. "Doyle, did you have a vision?"

He shook his head again, letting out an uncertain laugh. "That's an understatement. I think I had _the_ vision. The vision that I was meant to get from the very beginning. The vision to end all visions. I'm still seeing double because of it, too. That may be why I can't draw the stupid stone to save my life."

"Stone? What stone?"

With an aggravated sigh, Doyle dropped the pencil and shoved the notepad away from him. "I don't know," he said evenly, trying not to lose his temper. Leaning back in his seat, he gazed up at the ceiling with both disappointment and excitement in his eyes. "I don't know, but whatever it is, it's connected."

"Connected to what?" Violet asked.

Doyle's green eyes stared at her solemnly as he replied, "To everything. To you. To me." He paused for a moment before lowly adding, "To the First." Violet widened her eyes. So _that_ was it. Whatever it was that he had seen, it was something that was important enough to aid them against what Spike kept calling the Big Bad. Considering how little they knew about this faceless problem other than it involved an infestation of crazed ghosts and an increase in demonic activity, such a major clue was important enough to set Doyle on edge. If he didn't get the picture right, or describe it properly, or translate his vision correctly, then they could possibly lose their only advantage in this fight.

Turning back to the notepad, Doyle ripped out the sheet he had been drawing on and crumpled up the page. Taking up his pencil once again, he began a new sketch as he remarked, "Whatever it is, it's got a whole lot of power. I don't know if it's one of those 'find it before the bad guys do' kind of things, but I know that we're on a time crunch. We need to get it. _You _need to get it."

"Me?" Violet asked, surprised. "Why me?"

Without looking at her, Doyle continued tracing his pencil along the paper as he responded, "Because the cavern where it's kept won't accept demons, including werewolves. But it won't accept humans, either. "Casting her a sideways glance, he murmured, "You have Sidhe blood within you. You're not a demon, and yet you're above human. You're the only one I know who stands a chance."

"You're making it sound dangerous," Violet noticed. "Need I remind you that I can't even stand straight after performing a spell? There is _no_ way I'm going to be able to sneak into a cavern in the middle of the night and steal an ancient rock, even _if_ the fate of the world is at stake."

"You won't have to steal it," Doyle told her. "Nor sneak about like a ninja. It's there for the taking. If you're really worried, though, go across the hall and tell Robbie to go with you. He's good like that. He'll protect you if you need it."

"I thought you said-"

"Robbie should be able to go in," he answered. "But he won't be able to face the trials. That's something you'll have to do on your own."

"Trials?" Violet queried, sitting down on the floor as the situation got more and more upsetting. "You never said anything about _trials_."

"What's a good supernatural expedition without a trial or seven?"

"_Seven_?"

"They're short," he offered, as though that should make up for it. "Assuming you don't fail and doom us all, you should be back in enough time to get a decent breakfast before going to class." Though he still didn't look at her, he could sense her blue eyes gawking at him. Ripping the sheet out of the notepad, he turned around and offered it to her. "Here. This seems about right."

Blinking a few times, Violet need to regain her composure before she could look down at the piece of paper she now held in her hands. From what she could tell, it was a crude map, not really signaling much other than straight lines and approximate distances. But then, that was all one really needed from a map. "Doyle...."

"It's scary," he told her gently. "I know it is. The first time I got a call to arms, I backed out. It was too much. Just leave me to my own happy little life, you know?" He needed a moment before he could quietly add, "Good people died that night." Violet looked up at him, hearing the sadness in his voice as he looked down. "I don't know if I could've saved them all, but I _do_ know I could've saved at least a few of them. They called. I didn't answer."

Looking up at her, he shook his head again as though in denial. "I'm not trying to guilt you into this, Violet. You're the first person I thought of that could get this done, but that doesn't mean I'm right. That doesn't even mean that there's not someone else. All I'm saying is that you're a part of this little group we've got going here. If you're not up for this, better to bail out now before the real fighting begins. Because trust me, even though I can't make heads or tails out of most of my visions these days, I know that things are just going to get a whole lot uglier as time rolls along."

Violet wished she could simply jump up and agree to it. She had no close family or friends-she was the ideal sort of person to go in for these kinds of missions. But the fact of the matter was, she was scared. It was why she had hesitated when Spike had first asked for her help in locating Robbie the night he transformed into a wolf. It was why she hung back when Angelus had threatened Marissa outside of _Neon_. Violet wasn't a hero. She was just a member of the cheering squad who could do a couple of magic tricks.

As such, it took her a long time to answer. Even if Doyle could outline these trials for her, his visions _have_ been a lot fuzzier lately; who's to say that what he saw is actually what would happen? There was no guarantee that she would make it out of this with the prize, if she made it out at all. And even if she did, what then? As far as they knew, it was just a rock. If it had any kinds of powers, how long would it take before they'd be able to unlock them?

With a sigh, she looked down. Despite her fears, she knew she couldn't back down. Robbie had been her friend for years, and it seemed like he was determined to stick with Oz and Spike until the end of the world, even if that happened to be in ten minutes or ten years. If it meant helping them gain the upper hand and thus minimizing the chance that any of them would be listed as casualties, there was only one answer. "Let me go change my clothes," she told Doyle. "Then I'll go wake up my bodyguard and see what I can do."

"Good deal," Doyle said with a grin. "Only, the clothes are unnecessary. The trials need to be done in the nude." Seeing Violet's face go pale, he quickly held up his hands as though in defense. "Joke! That was a joke!"

"If the apocalypse doesn't kill you," Violet told him as she stood up, "then I'm _totally_ having the honors."

* * *

"Good old Sunnyhell," Spike remarked under his breath.

He sat in the driver's seat of Doyle's "borrowed" car, gazing at the gates and signposts that were supposed to keep people away. He couldn't see the crater in the darkness, but he knew it was there. It was calling out to him, as though daring him to step a little closer so it could kill him off for good this time. Spike was never one to turn down a dare.

Getting out of the car, he shoved his hands in his pockets as he continued to stare into the gloom. He knew that the military had lost interest in the Sunnydale incident a couple of years back. He didn't know why, of course, being an ordinary civilian... or as near to it as someone like him could possibly be. He wondered briefly if Riley Finn had access to that sort of information, or if Major Asshole even knew of Sunnydale's ultimate fate.

With a grimace, Spike walked towards the wire fence that attempted to stand in his way and pulled it free. He was sure that thoughts of Buffy's former beau were what caused the metal to yield beneath his grip so easily, but he was determined not to go along on that train of thought. Unfortunately, Spike never _could_ resist a bumpy ride when it presented itself.

Buffy. If not for Buffy, Sunnydale might still be standing, but in what kind of state? It'd be the center of Hell in a way that Los Angeles was slowly becoming. Spike would have never come to California had it not been for the enticing thought of killing another Slayer, leaving him to be one of the soulless beasts that would have ridden along on the First's wave of evil. Or hell, maybe evil wouldn't have won. If Buffy hadn't been in the picture, maybe Angel would've been chosen to lead Sunnydale to salvation. Maybe his martyr-like death would have made him an object of reverence worldwide. The Church of Angel.

The very thought was appalling enough to make Spike quicken his stride. His eyes flitted around the landscape looking for... whatever it was that was supposed to whisk him away or challenge him into a battle. All he could see was old ghosts, and none of the literal sort, thankfully.

He stopped at the edge of the crater and gazed down beneath him. He hadn't realized that this little backwater town had been so big. Spike supposed that you never really realize the enormity of something's influence until it's just no longer there. Just like Buffy and Angel....

"Puh," he spat out in a scoffing laugh as a breeze hit his face. He was surprised that there were still lingering smells in the air that he found so familiar, so bittersweet. "So I just drove about two hours out of my way for a little walk down memory lane, then?" Looking up to the sky as though beseeching an unseen spectator, he called, "I could've been watching a good program on the telly, you know, so you had better be worth my while, whatever you are."

Looking around, he waited. And waited. Nothing seemed to be happening, other than his patience wearing thin. Now he knew why Doyle had been sent to assist Angel with his visions; Spike would have simply beaten the mutt about the head if the visions were less than perfect. "I haven't got the time for this rubbish," he concluded, taking his hands out of his pockets and waving them dismissively. Beginning to turn away from the hole in the ground that used to be Sunnydale, he muttered, "Places to go, people to kill, and all that sort of-"

He stopped when he turned around. Instead of the gloomy panorama he expected to see, there was nothing. Not even darkness. It was a startling white stretching out for eternity, as far as he could tell. Looking down, he couldn't even make out a floor. A glance upwards made him question whether there was anything above him. Quirking an eyebrow, he remarked, "O_kay_, now I'm only a little bit perturbed here."

From behind him, a voice said, "Well how do you think _I_ feel? I'm cooped up in here day in and day out. And at least _you_ get things like _Grey's Anatomy_ on your television screen. What do I get, nothing but doom 'n gloom."

Spike recognized the voice immediately and straightened up. Well, that certainly explained the interference in Doyle's vision. Turning around, he saw the figure draped in white with her dark hair lying in loose curls around her shoulders. While most of his encounters with her resulted in him likening her voice to something like nails on a chalkboard, he couldn't deny that Doyle was right when he had said that she had always been a bit of a goddess. With a half-smile, he told her, "Heaven's light looks good on you, Cordy."

With a grin, Cordelia Chase laughed good-naturedly and replied, "Well, _duh_. What doesn't?"

* * *

"So the long and short of it is, we might just end up not making it out alive?"

Violet nodded at Robbie's grim assessment. "Yup, that's pretty much the short and the long." She glanced up at him. He looked remarkably aware of his surroundings, considering that she had woken him up after only a few minutes of sleep. They were becoming a regular pair of night owls.

With a sigh, she looked back at the darkened cavern that Doyle's map had led them to. They had abandoned Robbie's car nearly a mile back, as the road had all but disappeared at about that time. It had taken them a bit longer to get there than she would have thought, so she hoped that Doyle's idea of being on a time crunch didn't mean that the extra fifteen minutes just cost them the fate of the world.

"Cold?" Robbie asked. She glanced at him. Looking her over, he explained, "You're shaking." When she replied that she was indeed cold, he proclaimed, "Liar." She had never been more grateful for a guy putting an arm around her shoulders than she was at that very moment. Lying would have been an understatement. She had a case of the sweats. She wasn't cold; just terrified.

"I'm here to protect you," he told her, rubbing her shoulders as he returned his gaze to the open maw of the cave. "That's what you called me for, right? Marissa doesn't want me watching her back right now, so the least I can do is watch yours."

Violet looked down at the mention of Marissa. While they had somewhat made amends before she left town, Violet couldn't help but think of the girl as a lost cause. She might be able to accept that Violet was a faerie and that her ex-boyfriend and two of his friends were werewolves, but that didn't mean she'd ever come to like it. And yet Robbie still seemed to hold out some hope that she would... what? Wake up one morning and forget about the time he nearly killed her while in his wolf form?

"We're going to watch each other's backs," Violet breathed quietly. "Marissa's a human. She's got Superman and Spider-Man and all the rest of them taking care of the likes of her. The only ones we monsters can depend on at times like these are one another."

Before Robbie could attempt to chastise her for using the term "monsters," Violet slipped out from beneath his arm and marched towards the cavern. Armed with nothing else but an ornamental dagger he had bought from eBay several years ago, Robbie took a deep breath and quickly followed after her.

Even with the flashlights that Violet and Robbie carried with them, it was still difficult to see more than a few inches in front of them. Shaking his flashlight a bit, Robbie remarked, "I thought you said you put fresh batteries in these things."

"I did," Violet answered, keeping a sharp eye on their surroundings. "Maybe that just doesn't matter here." Moving in front of Robbie and placing a gloved hand against the cave wall, she absently stated, "Some people claim that darkness is just the absence of light. So if it's ever heavy enough, it doesn't matter how hard you fight against it; there's always a little bit of darkness there." Seeing something against the wall to her right, she brought her flashlight closer to it and murmured, "That doesn't mean light has to stop trying."

She gasped and almost stepped back when the reflective marking she had been shining her light on seemed to flare. She felt Robbie grab at her arm, but taking a step back allowed her to see what had happened. Her light had reflected against a small circular mirror in the wall, no larger than a quarter. It in turn bounced the light towards another mirror a little ahead of them and to their left, which reflected it back towards another, and another. Eventually, a passageway became clearly visible.

"Wow," Robbie awed. "It's like that scene in _The Mummy_." Looking to Violet, he asked, "Doyle didn't mention anything about mummies being in his vision, did he? Because I'm not sure I know how to deal with mummies. Other than reading an ancient spell from an Egyptian text, but I don't read glyphs."

"Not as far as I know," Violet responded, looking down the newly-lit corridor. In truth, Doyle hadn't told her much of anything. All he told her was that there was a cave, there'd be several trials (she sincerely hoped he meant several and not _seven_), and if she did well, she'd get a stone. There really wasn't talk about much else.

"So," she continued. "I... guess you go first?" Seeing Robbie gape at her, she explained, "If I move, the light fades away. If one of us crosses to the other side, then they can steady their light on the mirrors on _that_ end, and light the way for the other."

"What do we need light for?" Robbie asked. "It's a straight line until that sharp left down there."

"You watch Indiana Jones movies?"

"What does that have to do with-?" Robbie began, but stopped himself. Indy had always managed to _not_ be one of the guys to get arrows embedded into his flesh or have his heart ripped out. And he usually did that thanks to a certain degree of caution in the face of possible booby traps. (And by occasionally fighting dirty, but Robbie didn't think that's what Violet was talking about.) Proceeding down the length of an eerie cave without a smidge of light would have probably earned Indy nothing but a shiny new gravestone.

"Right," he said instead, looking down the passage. "I'll go first." Unsheathing the dagger and hoping that it was at least enough to inflict some damage on whatever might jump out at him, he gave Violet one last glance before stepping forward.

It wasn't long before it seemed as though his heel went down a little further than it should have and a loud _clunk_ noise reverberated through the air. Knowing what usually followed after something like that happened in an Indiana Jones flick, Robbie managed to mutter, "Oh, shi-" before a shadow loomed over him. He managed to look up just in time to notice two things: the ceiling had opened up, and several things were falling on top of him.

He ducked and threw his arms over his head even as he heard Violet shout his name. Judging by the way everything suddenly went dark, she had moved from her post and was gearing to come after him. "Get back!" Robbie yelled. "There might be more!" He shuddered when what felt like dozens of large insects showered over him, pinching at his hands. _Scorpions_, he was suddenly sure. _Good God, scorpions, just like in-_

He didn't get the chance to finish his movie comparison. He felt Violet arrive at his side, hurriedly wiping the creatures off of him while making small squeals of disgust. After what sounded like a frustrated groan, she cried out, "_Fiat lux_!"

Robbie heard numerous hissing sounds coming from whatever had covered his body. He hadn't even noticed that he had squeezed his eyes shut until he opened them again. Violet was standing besides him, her gloves off and a small glow shining from her hands and providing them with a meager amount of light. They were both breathing hard from their scenario, and Robbie shivered when he felt still one more of those things wriggling at the back of his neck. Quickly reaching up, he pulled it off and threw it to the floor.

His eyes widened when he saw that it was far too large to be an insect or arachnid or anything else that he could properly recognize. It was definitely scorpion-like in appearance, but that was all he could see of it before it skittered away, obviously repelled by the light. _It looks like that thing from _Cloverfield_,_ he realized, but didn't say so out loud. The last thing he needed in his life was a reference to a mummy movie, an adventure series, _and_ an alien flick all in one night.

Instead, he turned his attention to Violet. Her normally-pale face was a little more ashen than usual, making her red hair and blue eyes stand out even in that limited light. She was shaking again, but Robbie felt certain that it was simply a response to the creatures that had been swarming over them. Pointing to her hands, he queried, "If you could do _that_, why did we bother with the flashlights?"

Licking her lips nervously, she turned her gaze towards him. She tried to smile, to make light of the situation, but Robbie saw now that her trembling wasn't entirely about disgust. Her response stated it clearly. "We can replace the batteries of a flashlight a whole lot more easily than we can replace _my_ batteries." Remembering about how quickly using magic tapped her out, Robbie gently took hold of her elbow and decided they'd have to do this Spike's way.

"Come on," he told her. "Move fast, and the next time something jumps us, I'll just kill it."

* * *

"Nice place you've got here," Spike told Cordelia. "Nice and... bright. Roomy."

"Boring," Cordelia added, looking around at the empty white abyss. "This whole Higher Being thing is an even tougher job than being Angel's secretary. At least then I got vacation time... which usually went towards slaying demons or saving the world, but hey, it was _paid_ vacation time."

"So is this it?" Spike asked, also looking about. "Heaven? Or the Higher Realm or whatever it is you lot call it? This where the champions go when they stop being all champion-y? Because if so, I've seen hell dimensions more entertaining than this."

"Don't tempt me, buster," she told him chidingly. "I can get you stripped of all the brownie points you've earned with the Powers so fast that it'll make your little blood-sucking head spin. And on top of that, I'll send you to a hell dimension that plays out like _High School Musical_."

"And how would _you_ know what _High School Musical _is?"

"I told you," Cordelia responded, "all I pick up is doom 'n gloom. And boy, lemme tell ya, some of those kids are headed for gloomy futures. That is, if the world doesn't end first. Speaking of, pull up a metaphorical chair and let's have a little discussion. This is the part where I lecture you."

"Lecture me?" Spike asked, realizing that he wasn't even aware enough of his body to know whether he was sitting or standing. It made it difficult to attempt to walk, which probably made sense. Mere earthbound creatures were probably supposed to stay a certain distance away from these precious Higher Beings. Couldn't risk sullying them up, after all. "What do I need to be lectured on? I'm doing good, ain't I? Angel... he left me behind to do what he knew he couldn't, and I've been spending the past four years scouting out the world to figure out what exactly that is. I found Oz. I found Vision Boy. Don't tell me I'm already messing things up after I've started gathering up the forces."

"You haven't even started," Cordelia stated, becoming serious. "Angel didn't leave _any_thing behind to you, Spike. That wasn't his call to make. You were just another vampire who had a boner for little Miss Summers, and you took it the extra step. No one, and I _do_ mean _no one_, could have ever dreamed that someone like William the Bloody could get himself so turned around that he'd muddy up the Grand Scheme of Things."

Spike felt his jaw tighten, but said nothing as he looked away. Well, so much for _that_ idea, then. It was a nice thought, believing that he really _was_ the chosen champion and Angel had simply been the diversion so Wolfram and Hart wouldn't try to get to him. Still, even as he thought over his discussion with Xander in which he outlined his theory, Spike could see how foolish it sounded. He just didn't want to believe that he was simply another two-bit vamp that managed to stay alive far longer than most would have expected.

"You're _not_ an agent for the Powers That Be, Spike," Cordelia continued, though she clearly knew that it wasn't necessary to state the obvious. "The Powers That Be never called you to become a champion. They never called you to become a hero." The quality of her voice softened somewhat when she finished, "You did that on your own."

Spike looked up at her. Seeing her face beaming down on him, he almost got a sense that there was something akin to a mother's pride behind her gaze. Seeing as how she was now a goddess watching over the people of the world, he supposed that metaphor wasn't too far off.

"The Powers aren't the be all and end all," she went on. "They like to think that they are, but there's something out there that's way older and more powerful than them. The Powers are a symbol of order, balance. But order only comes along after Chaos."

Spike narrowed his eyes at her. She fell into silence, leading him to believe that he was left to figure things out on his own. So he wasn't working for the Powers That Be. He came way out of left field, getting himself a soul and doing what their champion had failed to do by weakening the First all those years ago. He messed up a prophecy that should have been written in bloody _stone_. "Agent of Chaos, that's me," he realized quietly.

"Yeah, some shocker, right?" Cordelia commented. "There's something I learned in English class a long, long, _long_ time ago. Back when, y'know, I did the whole school thing. Apparently, some old Elizabethan guy once said, 'Some are born great, others achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.' Buffy's a Slayer. She was born to be the badass chick she grew up to be. And Angel, he managed to do a lot of pretty awesome things once he got his soul back. But you? You were just kinda thrown in the middle of everything while the world was going to hell and somebody said, 'I'm leaving it all to you, kid. Bye!'"

Even as Spike laughed, Cordelia grew slightly more solemn. "This thing you're fighting right now isn't something you can win just by going over past battle plans. The ghosts that are becoming more and more tangible with every passing day, the new breed of werewolf that actually has control of its transformations, dead people are popping up everywhere even in _non_-ghost form... this isn't about a new player in the PTB's game anymore, Spike. This isn't even about a new game. This is a really, _really _old game that's been slowly pulling apart at the rules. Only it's not going so slow anymore."

"Everything that's been going on," Spike stated, "that's all it's been, then? It's Chaos? The world's going topsy -turvy and I... what, as an agent of Chaos, I need to _stop_ Chaos? Enlighten me, Cordy, because that's not making a lick of sense."

"Chaos isn't something that can be stopped," Cordelia told him. "The world was built on it. It's there. Without it, we pretty much cease to exist. And by we, I'm not just talking about you and everything down there, but me and everything up here, too. Life without Chaos is just make-believe.

"But you're not fighting against Chaos. Chaos isn't evil. But it isn't good, either. It just _is_. The same can be said for you. Without a soul, you still had some good tendencies. And _with_ a soul, you're not exactly the poster boy for the good guys. You're just you. You're whatever you want to be, and nothing is ever going to change that. That's why the Powers That Be can't accept you as a champion even after Angel died. You wouldn't be _their_ champion. You don't belong to anyone."

"Damn straight," Spike remarked. He flinched before looking around. "I'm not going to get struck by lightning for swearing in here, am I?"

"Nah, I do it all the time," Cordelia replied dismissively. "The sanctity of the place wears off after a few days of nothing but shimmering white."

"Tell me about it," he muttered. "You'd think the PTB could at least put in a decent frond or maybe a lake or something. A plasma TV shouldn't be too much to ask."

"I'm kinda above worldly pleasures now," she told him blithely. "I occasionally miss going on a good shopping spree, but I have other things on my mind. Like, I don't know, filling you in on everything you need to know before all of existence stops existing."

"_You're_ the one who threw in random Bard quotes," Spike reminded her. "Besides that, you just told me I can't fight against what I'm fighting against. I know you've been hanging around with the Powers, love, but can I get a bit of straight talk out of you before my brain bursts out from the back of my skull?"

Cordelia paused for a moment before declaring, "You're not fighting Chaos, Spike. A lot of bad things have been done in the name of Chaos, and Chaos may end up destroying us all at some point in time, but what you're up against now is something you've already faced down. Something almost as old as the Chaos that's backing you up."

"The First Evil," Spike said immediately.

Nodding, Cordelia answered, "Exactly. The Boogeyman, It, He Who Shall Not Be Named, whatever it is that you want to call it, that's what's pulling the strings here. The First is the only thing that can influence Chaos, since it was borne directly _of_ Chaos. It's primal, older than even the Old Ones. And Chaos doesn't really care _what_ it does. It's Chaos. You could say that it created the universe by accident, so it doesn't really care if it accidentally destroys us all."

"So why would it have me as a champion, then?" Spike asked.

With a roll of her eyes, she told him, "If I could, I'd smack you upside the head! No one ever said you were Chaos' _champion_, genius. You're an agent. That's all. Your alignment isn't strictly good, like Angel's, nor evil, like Angelus'. As such, you're a chaotic force of nature.

"That's why the Powers That Be are doing everything they can to bring you over to _our_ side. Oz was supposed to stay out of the picture entirely and live out his life in San Francisco. Instead, the PTB saw how crazy the new werewolves were getting, and so they arranged it for him to be connected with someone you'd meet in Woodridge. Ideally, Doyle and I would be hanging out up here every once in a while, but he was shot back to Earth at about the same time I came up for good and the PTB were going to leave him alone. Knowing that having a connection to them would probably help you, they gave him the visions back and sent him straight to you. You'll _need_ a Sidhe on your side, since you'll soon learn that having someone with blood that pure running through her veins can open up a _lot_ of doors for you. Xander's cousin is your link to Xander and ultimately the Slayers, who are already being roped into this mess without even realizing it. _You're_ not gathering up _any_ forces, mister. The forces are being _sent_ to you. So everything you've got right now is a gift from the Powers That Be.

"Strictly speaking, you can choose to ignore everything they've given you and turn away, or you can do what you've been planning on doing and risk your life for the world. This isn't about destiny, Spike. This is a _choice_. You had to know that before you could be allowed to continue, because it's going to get a whole lot messier from here."

Spike's mind raced with all of the new information he had been given. There was something Up There that was even more whacked-out than the Powers That Be, and it didn't care about whether the balance between good and evil was even. And he was part of it. Hadn't he often said that he didn't care much what happened to this world, so long as he was able to enjoy another round of hot wings and beer? And now he discovered that the force that ultimately controls the fate of the world has the same sentiment, only it doesn't even care for the comforts of food and beverage. Well, that was just _peachy_.

At least he had been right. It _was_ the First. On the plus side, he knew its weaknesses. It can take on the appearance of anyone that's died, and it can't take on a tangible form, relying on its minions to do its dirty work. As for why it would want the world to be destroyed when it had just tried overrunning it not too long ago, Spike could hazard a guess; it was pissed off. It had a toy, a nice toy, and just when it was going to get to play with it, here comes a group of Slayers backed up by a vampire, a witch, a mystical key, a former demon, a former Watcher, a couple of normal humans, and a _high school principal_. Of course, if it couldn't play with its toy, no one else could. Immature little bugger.

And the kicker was, he had a bloody _choice_. He nearly laughed at Cordelia's "warning." He had just finished getting over insurmountable mental anguish as a result of a wish made by one of these "gifts" that the Powers sent over. He had to watch his grandsire abduct and rape this same "gift" before he could finally put a stake through his heart. He alone had fought besides Angel when the Senior Partners made their move against Los Angeles, being the only comrade he had left that was still capable of standing. And now the Powers thought that he would opt out of one little apocalypse just because it wasn't his destiny? "This isn't about destiny," Spike finally told Cordelia. "This is about what's right."

With what looked like a relieved grin, Cordelia responded, "Great. Now let me tell you about your destiny."

* * *

"Okay," Robbie gasped when they finally reached the end of the corridor, "we made it through the first leg."

Not wanting to lean against a wall lest she release some other kind of trap, Violet nearly collapsed against Robbie. Holding the small glow of light in her hand was wearing her out, but she could hear the skittering of the scorpion-things trailing along behind them, so she didn't dare put it out. "Yeah," she agreed. "Let's just hope this isn't a cave of very many legs. Or else we're kinda screwed."

Putting an arm around her, Robbie cautiously peered around the next corner. Putting his dagger away to enable him to test his flashlight, he realized that the gloom here wasn't so thick. His beam illuminated several feet in front of him, which was far better than Violet's magical light. "C'mon," he told her, pulling at her. "I can use my flashlight down this hall. You can put yours out without worrying about the little alien bug things."

Peering around the corner, Violet asked, "Are you sure? What if it's just an illusion or something?"

"You're not going to be able to withstand these trials if you use up all your magic before we get to the stone," Robbie informed her obstinately. "C'mon. You'll see." Before she could say anything else, he had already pulled her around the corner, where there was indeed significantly less gloom. They listened closely for the bugs, but breathed easier when they heard them backing off. Grinning, Robbie announced, "Never doubt the super werewolf."

That said, he took a step forward as she extinguished her light. Just when she was about to ask him something, she felt a sudden tug on her hand and cried out as she crashed to the floor, instinctively tightening her grip on Robbie's hand. A flash of pain rode up her shoulder, and she made a strained noise before she was able to look up enough to see what had happened.

The ground beneath Robbie had simply given away. If he hadn't been gripping onto Violet's hand, he would have simply fallen into what looked like a black pit. As it was, their grip on one another was slipping. Violet was a slight girl and was already weakened from her use of magic... and Robbie wasn't exactly a lightweight. "Robbie!"

"Hold on!" Robbie screamed, trying desperately to gain some footing along the cragged wall. "Vy, just hold on for a few seconds, please!" She mewled in both pain and horror when she saw that the rock was simply breaking off beneath his feet and the clutching fingers of his free hand, his flashlight having clattered down below.

She was nauseous. She wanted nothing more than to throw up and go to sleep and not see her closest friend depending upon her failing grasp. _Oh God,_ she thought, feeling the tendons in her arms stretching even as his hand continued to slide away. _Oh God, he's going to die! He's going to fall and die and it's going to be my fault, oh God!_

She tried to think of magic, some magic spell that would levitate him or make her stronger or _some_thing, but it all failed her. It could have been the lack of sleep that was making her slow-witted, or it could have even had something to do with Robbie's cheap weaponry. Iron wasn't exactly conducive to a faerie's health.

"Robbie!" Violet suddenly called out. The wall that Robbie was frantically trying to gain footing on kept falling away in chunks. It was _clay_. "Robbie, your knife! Stick it into the wall!" Her last word gave way into a shriek as Robbie's hand finally dropped away from hers.

"Agh!" Robbie cried from somewhere beneath her. Violet's breath came in irregular gasps as she watched his head emerge from the shadows that had threatened to swallow him. At first she thought that the yell was a reaction to something that happened to him, but she soon saw what it was. Robbie had managed to get out his dagger and stabbed it into the soft clay wall. It had slowed his fall enough to allow him to sink the fingers of his free hand into the wall, finally gaining him some leverage.

"Oh God," she whimpered, covering her mouth with her hand. He was all right. It would take him some time before he could dig his fingers into the soft earth and pull himself out, but he was a strong man. Spike called him Hercules. All he needed was the right leverage.

When Robbie finally did manage to crawl out of the hole, Violet threw herself at him so hard that both of them almost toppled into the abyss. He had clenched the knife between his teeth when he saw that he no longer needed it, and he removed it from his mouth before wholeheartedly embracing her. "Thanks," he gasped. "Oh man... thanks."

She was sobbing against him and needed a few moments to compose herself. Finally pulling herself away, she couldn't bring herself to look him in the eye as she continued to sniffle. "Oh God," she breathed again. "Sorry, I... I'm not cut out for this whole life-or-death business."

"Yeah, well, we spent most of our lives being normal humans," Robbie told her as he shakily got to his feet. "Or pretending to be normal, at any rate. We're both just going to have to adjust." Having lost his flashlight, he waited until Violet could compose herself and rise to her feet, getting hers out and casting a light into this new passageway. "There was a floor there," he said as he looked down at the square hole. "I _know _there was. And then there just... wasn't."

Violet shined her light on the ground. It looked to be made of stone, which surprised her. She had the impression that this rock she had been sent to retrieve was ancient. If others had gone after it before, then someone had to be there to reset the booby traps after they had been set off. But to replace stone? That _had_ to involve someone with a sizeable amount of strength, resources, or magic. If they had to face off with this person-or group of people-then Violet wasn't sure she'd be able to go back to Doyle with a simple, "Mission accomplished."

Quickly disregarding the query of who they would meet at the end of these hallways, Violet observed the markings on the floor. Eight across, in alternating patterns of black and white. Eight long, in the same color scheme. "It's a chessboard," she realized.

"Chess?" Robbie asked. "Great. I _hate_ chess."

Looking at the first row in front of them, Violet realized that Robbie had stepped through the first corner square. "You're not a rook."

"Um, thank you?"

"The rooks start off in the corner," Violet clarified. "You're not a rook, but you stepped on the rook's starting position. You made a wrong move. So you got a penalty." Taking a deep breath, she grabbed onto one of Robbie's arms as she gingerly stepped onto the white square besides the gaping hole Robbie had set off. She sighed in relief when she stood there for a few seconds with nothing happening.

"Woo-hoo," Robbie remarked sarcastically. "Since this is all very _Raiders of the Lost Ark_-esque, I'm gonna do what people usually do when they're hanging around Indy and just follow along right behind you." With that, he clasped a muddy hand with one of hers and stepped behind her onto the square.

They immediately knew it was a mistake when the square suddenly jolted down by about two inches, startling them both. Hearing something crank up above them, both of them jumped back just as three long spears dropped from the ceiling and hit the spot where they had just been standing. Her heart racing, Violet nevertheless explained, "Only one piece can occupy a space."

Shocked by the second near-miss in the past minute, Robbie gestured wildly to the spears and demanded, "Now what if a really _fat_ person was trying to get this stupid rock and set off that trap? He'd be skewered just for being too damned fat!"

"Then I should be thankful I've been on a diet," Violet replied. "The second space is designated for the knight, so we know that one of us has to be a knight. Stand on the second space from that end." Robbie did as he was told, carefully placing his weight on the square until he was certain nothing was going to happen. "Now," Violet wondered, "would they even allow for another piece, or are they only going to assume one person is going to be going after this thing?"

"Don't knights protect the royal family?" Robbie asked. "Not in chess, I mean, but in general? Maybe you should go wherever the queen goes."

"This was designed a long, long time ago," Violet told him. "Whoever it was that created this, they wouldn't have made it with a female adventurer in mind. Knights protected the king, but they also protected the clergy, so a bishop is just as likely."

Her eyes flitted over the board. Whoever it was that was going after the stone had to be someone who wasn't demon nor human. And Doyle had defined her as "above human," which is what kings used to be considered. She looked over to the square two spaces to Robbie's left. Gripping his arm once again, she slowly set herself on it, waiting for the sound of a winch or for some other sign that she made a wrong choice. When nothing happened, she sighed and looked at Robbie. "I guess I'm a king."

"Okay," Robbie responded. "Now how do we play?"

* * *

"So my destiny is only important when it doesn't matter anymore?" Spike asked.

"Hey, it's the Powers That Be," Cordelia told him, holding her arms out as though to say it wasn't her fault. "Would you expect anything _less_ confusing? On the bright side, your destiny's being worked out for you as we speak. Unless they fail, of course. In which case, you'd be better off staying up here with me than sticking around down below."

"You're having other people work out my fate?" Spike sputtered, though not rightly angry. "Well, that's no bloody good! Please tell me they're gods or oracles or other sorts of important-sounding people in flowing robes."

"Hold on," Cordelia said, looking upwards as though going through her own mental catalogue of names. "I know they're up here somewhere. Oh! There they are. The faerie girl, Violet Allen, and the new werewolf, Robert Wilson." With a smile, she looked back at Spike and added, "Robbie, by the way, is a total hottie. If it weren't for the fact that I'm a Higher Being and he's a mere mortal, I'd be telling you to put in a good word for me."

"Tinkerbell and Wolf Boy?" Spike spat out, this time getting a little closer to anger than he would have anticipated. "_Those _boneheads are working out my destiny? How in the hell did the Powers manage to think up _that_ one? They sat around and had one too many nips of ambrosia and decided it'd be a great gag?"

"Don't judge them that way," Cordelia scolded. "There's a lot more to them than you've realized. Heck, as it is, they've already made it halfway to the Chaos Stone, which is a lot closer than anyone's gotten in _millennia_." As though having seen something in her mind's eye, she corrected, "Oh, make that two-thirds! Very impressive!"

"Rewind and pause at the bit where you drop a new name," Spike told her. "The _what_ stone?"

"Chaos Stone," Cordelia replied, returning her full attention to him. "Basically, a rock that contains the primal essence of Chaos. It's got the power to make or break all of creation, really, so you'd think we'd have come up with a better name than that. But the PTB uses enough of their collective brainpower coming up with complicated prophecies and all of that."

Spike simply stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out what she was saying. Finally, he said, "All right, explain this to me as though I'm a mentally retarded four-year-old. The pixie and the wolf are working their way towards a piece of _rock_ that can destroy existence as we know it... and the Powers are the ones who put this together? Can I speak to them, because I've got a few years worth of thrashings to deliver unto them. _Especially_ if I'm not their golden champion. I'll show 'em a bit of chaos."

"Agent of Chaos or not," Cordelia told him, "there'll be no thrashing of the PTB. They're in a bad enough mood already, from what I've heard. Must be putting poor Doyle in a panic with all the visions they're dumping into his brain." She looked down at the mention of Doyle.

"All the visions?" At the sound of Spike's voice, Cordelia looked back up. "_What_ visions? The bloke's been a dead cell almost from the get-go. The first one he had in nearly two weeks was when he told me to go to Sunnydale's remains and disappear."

Cordelia narrowed her eyes in confusion. "The first one? But the Powers have been pumping him full of every little thing that comes up, even if it might not mean anything in the long run. Hell, since he's been teaming up with you, _I've_ sent him three visions myself!"

Spike considered this before asking, "What visions did you send him?"

Thinking about it, she answered, "I gave him his very first vision; _I _was the one that picked him off the streets and spoke to him, though he probably didn't recognize my voice. He got that one, because I even gave him a push in your direction so he could get to Angelus in time and try to stop him from kidnapping Xander's cousin. Then I sent him another one a couple of days later, warning him that the girl was gonna go all psycho and try to kill you while you were temporarily hysterical and that that would be _bad_. Then I sent him the one tonight because I figured it was time to talk."

After thinking this over, Spike told her, "Those are the three I know about, too. And I've been sharing living quarters with him for a bit, so I'd think I'd know if he got anything else. He mentioned something about his visions not being what they used to be, but I had thought that it had to do with the whole resurrection thing."

"Someone's interfering with his visions," Cordelia realized.

With a heavy, irritated sigh, Spike blurted out, "Oh, for-! You're living up here in the Higher Realm and you're not even aware of whether or not your visions are being sent out to your psychics? What kind of operation _is_ this, anyhow?"

"Hey," Cordelia snapped, "cut me a break, okay? I'm still pretty new at this. Besides, we're only the Powers That Be. It's not like we're omniscient or anything. We're not _God_."

After a beat, Spike asked, "So, _does_ God-?"

"Classified information," Cordelia interrupted. "Trust me, they even leave _me_ guessing on that one for sure. Anyway, we've got some bigger things to work out. If Doyle's only getting the visions _I_ send him, then that means something. I don't know _what_, but it does." With a groan, she lamented, "I'm predicting a huge increase in my workload over the next few... forevers."

"Look, at least we've figured out that someone's intercepting Doyle's messages from the Powers That Need To Pay Better Attention," Spike stated. "Whoever's doing it, it has to be someone with a pipeline to the PTB. Find out who that is, and I'll handle this the old-fashioned way. I'll find the bastard, and I'll punch him really, really hard until he apologizes real nice, tells me what I want to know, and then I'll kill him."

Giving him a disturbed glance, Cordelia remarked, "Yeah, and you thought you were a champion of the Powers That Be for _how_ many years? What sort of ego-inflating crack were _you_ smoking?" Shaking her head as though dismissing the idea, she told him, "It wouldn't matter anyway. Very few people have got a direct connection to the Powers That Be, and those are usually people that the PTB handpick from the moment they're just a drunken glint in their parents' eyes. Except for, you know, the people who end up getting kissed by half-demons before they die and unwillingly inherit brain-breaking visions of death and demons and doom."

"Is _that_ how it happened?" Spike queried. "I didn't know you could pass that along with a snog."

"The point is," Cordelia steamrollered on, "either someone is using a huge store of magic to clog up the phone lines between us and Doyle, or something's just... _wrong_ with him." The second idea obviously bothered her, so she didn't seem to dwell on it too long. "We'll have to look into the big mojo users left out there. If any of them are messing with this, they are _so_ in for a world of trouble and _High School Musical_ hell dimensions."

"You figure out who that is and keep in touch," Spike told her. "For now, give me more on this rock that Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum are trying to find. What do I do, use it to bash the First's face in or something?"

"No," she replied with a touch of her old annoyance in her voice. "Though if you'd like to give it a try, I'll be sure to watch as the First kicks your ass."

"Give me credit," Spike smirked. "At least now I'm asking questions. Shows I've grown, yeah?"

"Before you can even think about turning that into a dirty joke," Cordelia responded, "I'll go about answering said question. Like I said, the Chaos Stone contains the primal essence of Chaos. It's like how sap hardens into amber. Only this is... primordial ooze, I guess. Hardening into a big shiny rock.

"Because it's composed of pure Chaos, it can be used to aid either good or evil, depending on who it is that's using it. A virtuous person can use it to push the events of the Random to fall towards the side of good. That means that, while Evil itself can't be completely abolished without also getting rid of Good, someone wielding that kind of power can turn the _First_ Evil into nothing more than a really annoying memory.

"And then there's, you know... the flip side. Bad person-or, worse yet, the First itself- latches onto that rock, and bye-bye civilization. If we're lucky. If not, then it's bye-bye to all of creation; good, evil, and everything in between."

"Including hot wings and beer," Spike noted regretfully.

"And jelly donuts."

"God, jelly donuts are amazing."

"Have you got _any_ idea how hard it is to find a good donut in the Higher Realm?"

"I've got _some_ idea, I'd wager," Spike responded. "All right, then, so presuming Tink and Hercules don't get themselves lost looking for this thing, I've now got a Chaos Stone in my possession. Still not telling me how to use it, and the bashing-in-of-the-face trick has usually worked in the past."

"Watching the First kick your ass would be funny, if it didn't mean I'd cease to exist afterwards," Cordelia commented. "As for how it's used, I'm a little hazy on that. Before you go giving me anymore of your snark, remember that I'm on the lower end of the food chain up here, okay? I might look fabulous, but that doesn't mean I've got a top-level security clearance. For now, all I know is that you're entrusted with protecting it once you get it. I know it needs to be imbued with something... but that could be anything from a life essence to strawberry jelly. Ugh, I would _so_ put up with bills and pimples again for just _one_ good jelly donut."

"Light on the donut worship before you start giving Homer Simpson a run for his money," Spike told her. "So you're saying I'm going to be carrying a pebble around in my pocket and won't know how to use it until ten seconds after it would've been of any use?"

"There's still some time," Cordelia replied. "Whoever's been stealing Doyle's visions might have been screening them so they can keep track of what the PTB knows. If this eavesdropper doesn't know about the Chaos Stone yet, then Violet and Robbie won't have to worry about getting to it before the First or any of its minions does. All they need to do is not die."

"Not... I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I didn't mention the trials?"

"... the word 'trials' never bodes well."

Reluctantly, she brought up, "There are seven trials that need to be passed before they can get to the room where the Chaos Stone is located. The good news is they're up to six, by my count. The bad news is, I don't think either of them knows that there's still one thing left to do once they cross the threshold into the room. The worse news is, I'm not sure they'll pass that final stage."

Spike merely gaped at her for a moment before crying out, "You couldn't bloody well tell me this ten minutes ago instead of going on about rocks and jelly donuts?! Pop me back down on Earth and set me in their direction so I can get them out of there! I know a thing or two about passing trials, you know."

"I can't do that, Spike," she answered. "For one thing, I can only set you back where I got you from. Something about the fact that your essence was once swallowed up on the old Hellmouth. By the time you get to where the two of them are, it might be too late. For another thing, you're a vampire. Demons can't enter that final room, so you wouldn't be much use to them anyway. And lastly, this is something the two of them need to do on their own."

When Spike asked why, Cordelia grew solemn as she said, "Because if they can't survive this, they'll never make it to the final battle."

* * *

"Okay, at least Harrison Ford had a _script_ when he did _Indiana Jones_," Robbie muttered.

"Not helping, Robbie," Violet told him, making a futile attempt to keep the incoming wall from closing in on them. If she even _tried_ pushing hard against it, she'd be likely to sprain something before turning into a very drained pancake. "Didn't something like this happen in _Star Wars_ or some other action movie? How'd the heroes get out of this?"

Grunting as he simultaneously pushed against the opposite wall and searched for some kind of switch or something that would stop its approach, he remarked, "They had a couple of droids in the Death Star's control room that pushed the right buttons at the right time. Know any droids?"

"Life-or-death situations are _not_ the best time to joke around," she reprimanded.

"No," Robbie agreed, "but they may be the _last_ time to joke around, if we don't figure out a way out of here. Use that brain of yours and figure something out."

"I already used all of my brains during the chess match from Hell," she replied, backing away from the wall upon seeing she'd have no impact on it. "And I used most of my magic on the first corridor with the bugs. My endurance went out the window when we had to outrun that sudden cascade of water and my agility's been worn down after dodging dozens of arrows being shot from that creepy statue's mouth. I don't know what else I've got left."

"Well, _find_ something!"

"I'm _trying_!" Violet nearly screamed, turning on Robbie. With the narrow passageways and the specifically-placed traps, they had been herded into this small room before the door came crashing down and the walls began closing in. They were rats in a maze, and Violet was beginning to suspect that they wouldn't even be able to _see_ the cheese that supposedly awaited them at the end. Which was, in her mind, just as well. It was Doyle's cheese; _he_ should have come gotten it.

She forced herself to calm down. No good would come out of this if she wasted her time snapping at Robbie. He was right, anyway. _She _was the one who was supposed to go after the stone, right? Sure, if you listened to Doyle. Stupid Doyle and his stupid visions. "Powers That Be," she muttered vehemently. "And you wonder why the Sidhe hate you."

She tried to keep herself calm as Robbie continued to use his considerable store of muscle in an unsuccessful bid to keep the walls back. "Used up my brains," she repeated, mostly to herself. "Used up my magic. Used my endurance and my agility. What's left?" It was true. Everything they had gone through seemed to target a different trait. Were these the trials that Doyle had warned her about?

"Violet, hurry it up!" Robbie yelled, seeing he only had another few feet of clearance.

Moving towards the very center of the rooms, Violet's mind raced. Speed? Was she now being tested on her speed? No, that would've counted towards the gush of water that had filled the cavern upon opening the wrong door. Her strength, perhaps? No, the very idea of her being strong enough to keep the walls back when even Robbie was panicking was ridiculous. So what? What else did someone who was "above human" need to prove her worth?

"Violet!"

"Quiet!" Violet snapped. Having a sudden thought, she shone her flashlight onto the floor. It was made of stone, marking it yet another man-made marvel. Seeing that the floor was two-toned, she realized that she was going about this all wrong. "Robbie, come here." He tried to object, but she repeated the command. Since she seemed to be the one to get them out of most of these fixes, he didn't question her. With a final concerned look at the enclosing walls, he moved to stand behind her.

After a few moments, Robbie's nervousness grew. "What?" When she made no response, Robbie groaned as he looked around them, the only other sound being the rumbling of the walls as they got closer. "Vy, please don't tell me that you're just waiting for death. I'd like to go out with a bang, not a crunch as I get every bone in my body crushed."

He quieted down when Violet turned to face him. Though he could see a bit of fear in her eyes, he thought he saw a kind of confidence, too. She knew how to get out of here. At least, she _thought_ she knew. She was just afraid that she'd be wrong... and would die hearing the crunching noises as they got every bone in their bodies crushed. "Do you trust me, Robbie?"

He was forced to stand sideways, the walls were so close. Still, he shrugged one of his shoulders and remarked, "More than anyone else in the vicinity, sure." Seeing that this wasn't a good enough answer, he added, "You're not going to turn into a crazy wolf or try to drink my blood, so yeah, I trust you. I trust you a whole lot. If I'm going down now, at least we're going down together."

She stared at him for a moment, her back pressed against the opposite wall as it pushed her towards the center. Finally, she gave him a small smile. "Thanks, Robbie," she told him.

"Now get me out of here!"

Almost as soon as the flustered plea escaped Robbie's lips, the walls stopped moving. The room was left with an eerie stillness as everything quieted down and stopped moving. Seeing Robbie look around their surroundings, perplexed, Violet shone her light on the floor again. "The stone is rougher here in the center of the room," she explained. "And it's dustier. I figured that this meant that the walls only came in so far, smoothing out the rest of the ground. We just needed to wait it out."

She was proved correct when a door on the other side of the room suddenly slid open, attracting both of their attentions. "Please tell me you knew that for sure," Robbie whimpered as they began making their way across the extremely narrow corridor. "Please don't say that you were just crossing your fingers and hoping for the best."

"Sometimes, that's all you _can_ do," she replied. Cautiously stepping into the next room, she added, "Everything we've been through so far-the chess game, the arrows-it tested a different virtue of someone who's supposed to be 'above human,' in Doyle's words." Shooting Robbie a glance as he stepped in besides her, she stated, "Patience is, after all, a virtue."

Robbie was about to say something, but another voice came out from the darkness. "Patience is necessary, yes. So are agility and endurance, which you both have in abundance. You possess logic enough to make it through foolish games, and the magic necessary to save your own life. And your skills of observation are impressive."

At the sound of the unfamiliar voice, Violet aimed her flashlight in all directions, but couldn't see anyone. Robbie quickly fell into a defensive position, though he too was left blind to whoever this unknown arrival was. They both blinked when the room was suddenly filled with light, and the _fwoosh_ sound and sudden heat made it clear that a line of torches had somehow lit in front of them.

When their eyes adjusted, they saw a relatively small figure standing in front of a large metal door. It was definitely humanoid, but its long blue hair, electric blue eyes, and the blue veins that coursed its face proved that it definitely wasn't a human in the strictest sense of the word. Violet's eyes went over the curves of its body covered in a tight red suit of sorts and realized that it was meant to be a female. A woman was guarding the door to their sacred rock. Huh, maybe the ancients weren't as misogynistic as she had thought.

"So is this it?" Robbie asked, still prepared for an attack and yet lightening up on his defensive stance. "Did we play enough of your stupid little games? Can we get this stone and go home now, or are you going to try and put up a fight?"

He felt his throat tighten when she turned her wide eyes to him. "You do not see me as a threat," she realized. He had to keep back a shiver when her cold eyes looked over his body, as though assessing the damage he could do. "You are lucky that I am not to waste my time on fools."

Violet started when she returned her gaze to her. Nervously licking her lips, she almost hoped that her Sight would prove faulty when she stammered out, "Y... you're one of th-the Old Ones."

"Yes," she replied, tilting her head.

Violet had been talking about the Old Ones to someone recently. Spike. He had said something about how he was acquainted with one of them. He had described her as an "overgrown Smurf." Though she tried not to think of that lest this demon happen to have telepathic abilities, she asked, "Are you Illyria?"

"You are a friend of the half-breed," Illyria said by way of an answer. "His leader and army have fallen, and yet he continues to seek out others. Does he not believe in his own strength, or is he simply too human for his own good?" No longer looking at Violet or at anything else, she hollowly remarked, "I have tried to understand these human sentiments, but they are beneath me."

"Says the security guard," Robbie stated wryly. Though he was still put off by those large eyes that quickly glared up at him again, he crossed his arms over his chest and put on a brave front. They had gotten this far, and if all that was standing in their way was an old blue-haired demon chick, he didn't see too much of a problem. "There's nothing wrong with being too human," he continued. "But since it's obvious that _you're_ not, how about sparing us the self-pity and either opening that door for us or telling us what else we need to do?"

"Your impudence does not even contain a trace of humor," Illyria responded. "You are even more bland than the vampire. You should show a bit of intelligence and remain silent, lycanthrope. My business is not with you."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Robbie growled.

"I am older than this miserable rock you call planet Earth," Illyria shot back sternly, slowly approaching them. Though he was angry, Robbie found that he had to restrain himself from backing away. "I am more powerful than the forces of nature that dictate your pathetic life. I am the only one of my kind to walk these grounds since your sad species first dragged itself from the oceans. Just because I am trapped in the shell of a wretched girl that would have once been your peer, don't assume that I will hesitate in removing your head from your body and using it to adorn these walls."

She stopped when Violet quickly stepped in front of Robbie, holding her arms out as though to block her. Though she knew it would be a pointless gesture, Violet wasn't going to stand by and watch Robbie get himself ripped to shreds just because he mouthed off to an Old One. "He doesn't know any better," Violet told her, painfully aware of how easily Illyria could kill them both with a single blow. "You said your business isn't with him, so don't pay any attention to him. We want to get inside that room. How do we do that?"

Illyria said nothing at first, gazing at Violet with what appeared to be amusement in her icy eyes. At length, she finally said, "_This_ is the best warrior for the quest? A child with Sidhe blood so diluted that she cannot even maintain a simple glamour spell on her own face?"

As Violet put a hand to her face and realized that Illyria was speaking the truth, the Old One went on. "For what it's worth, you _are_ a sight better than the mongrel besides you. And as neither he nor the half-breed would be able to enter the Chaos Chamber, it would appear that you are the most logical choice. You have made it _this_ far, after all."

"Chaos Chamber?" Violet queried.

After a look into her face, Illyria discovered, "You do not know why you have been sent." Looking down, she reflected on it in silence before murmuring, "The grasp that the Powers That Be have upon this world truly _is_ slipping."

Returning her eyes to Violet, Illyria explained, "Chaos shall one day rule this world as it does several worlds across the dimensional planes. That is why I chose to align myself with it. Fighting for the vampires was only a result of my initial confusion at this backwards world, but I soon learned better. I would tell you that you would do well to fight for Chaos rather than for the Powers That Be, but it is too late for the likes of you."

"I don't side with the Powers That Be," Violet interjected.

"Who you 'side' with is irrelevant," Illyria told her. "It is who you _fight_ for that matters. As it is, what you are about to do will be to the benefit of the Powers and to the rest of creation, so I will not deter you from your task. The question that remains, however, is whether or not you _can_ fight."

That said, Illyria suddenly reached out grabbed Violet's arm, yanking the startled girl and sending her flying into a wall. Robbie, who had been gripping his dagger's hilt tightly in case she should prove hostile, quickly unsheathed his weapon, but he wasn't quick enough to stop Illyria from taking his wrist and twisting it enough to get him to release the knife. He tried to push her away, but she simply knocked his arms away and reached for his throat.

Violet managed to get herself up to her feet just in time to see Illyria lift Robbie several inches off the ground by his throat. "No!" Illyria looked her way at the sound of her scream, but didn't seem the slightest bit concerned when Violet raced towards them. As soon as she was close enough, Illyria merely struck out with her free hand as though swatting a fly, sending Violet stumbling back.

"He will die," Illyria told her coolly, referring to the man who was desperately clawing at her. "You have the opportunity to slip past me, to leave this place and forget about your so-called mission, and his body will be collected and delivered to the proper authorities before decomposition can take its toll. You have my word on all of those things, and you have been raised with enough respect for my kind to not doubt my word. Now leave."

"No," Violet grunted out resolutely, rising to her feet. Seeing the fallen knife lying between her and the pair, she darted and grabbed for it, holding the knife a few inches away from Illyria's face. Though her hand shook, she nevertheless ordered, "Let him go."

Illyria simply gazed at her for a moment, mindless of the fact that Robbie's face was turning red and he was spraying spittle into the air as she continued to block his airways. "The Sidhe have no love for the Powers That Be," she finally said. "But they revere the Old Ones as the gods they were when the world was still young. You know better than to believe me to be simply a 'security guard,' as your friend here said. So why do you not honor my command and instead raise a weapon against me?"

"Because," Violet answered, "he _is_ my friend. Spike's my friend, and so are other people living in this world, human and demon and everything in between. And if a person isn't willing to fight even a _god_ for the people she loves, then her life doesn't mean much to begin with."

Illyria seemed to scrutinize her, from her wavering hands to her deep ragged breaths. Violet knew without a doubt that, if an Old One said that a person was going to die, then he was going to _die_. There was nothing she could do that would change Illyria's mind if she wanted to kill Robbie, and there was no way she was strong enough to stop the former goddess' hand from striking the death blow. But damn it, she was going to _try_.

After a few moments, Illyria slowly put Robbie down, much to Violet's unveiled surprise. He fell to his knees, coughing and struggling for breath. Violet looked at Illyria before attempting to move for Robbie, but the demon stopped her. "You would not have succeeded in your task if you did not have the courage to question even the gods themselves."

Violet turned at the sound of a loud creaking coming behind her, and she saw that the door into what Illyria had called the Chaos Chamber was opening on its own. "He cannot enter the final chamber," Illyria told her, "but as long as he keeps his insolence to himself, he will not be harmed."

Violet looked back at Robbie. He was still kneeling and trying to breathe normally, but it seemed as though the thing that took the biggest hit was his pride. He had come here to protect her, and had instead been used as a sort of bargaining chip.

Seeing the look in the faerie girl's eyes, Illyria's own gaze changed, though it couldn't rightfully be said to have softened. Just when Violet turned away to walk into the last room, Illyria reluctantly asked, "Would you have felt grief for him?"

Violet stopped. She had never heard of Old Ones talking about emotions as anything other than an inconvenience that humans have been burdened with, so the question struck her as odd. Still, she looked at Illyria over her shoulder and answered, "Yes."

Illyria seemed to consider this before hesitatingly stating, "I know what grief is. It is good that you will not feel it tonight." She seemed to turn inwards, then, thinking back on memories long forgotten and... regrets? Was it possible for an Old One to feel regret? Was it possible for an Old One to feel?

Pondering over Illyria's cryptic words, Violet took a deep breath an entered the Chaos Chamber.

* * *

"Oh, well, there you go!"

Spike stared up at Cordelia, more than a little on edge. She hardly said a word after explaining the difficult mission that Doyle had sent Violet and Robbie on, and he wondered why she couldn't connect that mind of hers to some kind of screen and let _him_ in on the show, too. He was entitled to a decent action flick and some popcorn, and he'd also like to know if he'd have to explain to Oz how Doyle went and lost two of their soldiers. "Good to hear that," he replied. "Now _where_ is it that I'm going?"

"The two of them made it through the trials," Cordelia replied, looking down at Spike. It didn't escape his notice that she wasn't smiling, though. "Now Violet just has to go through one teeny-tiny little test, and everything should be coming up roses."

"Test?"

"A formality, really," Cordelia told him evasively. "Basically a verbal contract. 'I promise not to use this item for anything other than its intended purpose,' and all of that other sort of stuff to make it perfectly legal."

Raising an eyebrow at her, Spike remarked, "Cordy, I hardly think that Chaos itself would have learned a few things from Wolfram and Hart. And if it did, there'd be no point even trying to fight it." Seeing Cordelia's downcast eyes, he quietly asked, "What's the girl going to have to do?"

With a ghost of a smile, Cordelia returned her eyes to him and responded, "She's just going to have to answer the same question we all heard at some point in our lives: is the fate of the world really worth it?"

Spike didn't have to ask what "it" was. It was the thing that he and Buffy and Doyle had all been put through for the fate of the world. It was also the thing that others have gone through and never quite recovered from-Angel, Wesley... and a whole slew of Slayers and other innocents. He didn't think Violet would be able to accept death just so a bunch of people she'd never met could continue to live their happy little lives. Then again, he hadn't thought that she'd be able to make it through the trials. It was wholly possible that he really _had_ been wrong about her. "Is she going to die?"

Cordelia seemed to consider the question before answering, "Would you be shocked and appalled if I said yes?"

"Not shocked," he remarked. "It's the bloody PTB, after all. Emphasis on the bloody. No, just... a bit sorry that there'll be another hero who won't get a proper burial. Seems to be a lot of that going around."

After gazing at him for a long time, Cordelia surprised Spike by stepping towards him. His spatial judgments have been a bit screwy, and he had given up trying to move much while in this metaphysical world with the goddess. But she was definitely walking towards him as she stated, "You know, if it weren't for the fact that I kinda know all-except for the stuff that actually seems to matter, like the snafu with Doyle's visions-I'd be seriously doubting that you're the same bloodsucker that didn't care about anything but killing Buffy and being all Sid and Nancy with Drusilla."

Stopping in front of him, she smiled gently as she concluded, "You really have grown, Spike. Hope that doesn't mean you're above getting your hands dirty when it comes down to the wire. Because believe me, the Powers have nothing against you giving the First _or_ Chaos a good kick in the crotch before metaphorically ripping their throats out."

"That sort of dance is in my nature, pet," Spike told her. "A slight touch of destiny isn't going to change much in the way of my tastes. None of the players ever really change, at their core. That includes the bleedin' Powers."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on," Spike scoffed. "They're called the _Powers_. They've got psychics and gods and champions and all of that. You're really telling me there's no way they can band together and actually do a bit of the ass kicking once in a while? Even _they_ run the risk of being snuffed out, and they're still just pushing the pieces around without throwing themselves into the game."

Cordelia said nothing at first. Just as Spike wondered if he had actually managed to offend her for his words against her current "bosses," she replied, "This isn't their game." Sighing, she looked away as she continued, "Chaos came first. Everything that exists came into being because of Chaos. The Powers That Be are just trying to make sense of existence by providing a balance. But it's kind of like looking at a Twister mat and trying to figure out the rules without ever having seen anyone play it. Eventually, someone will come along and just ruin the game as you know it."

"You _are_ aware that you're comparing life to a game that drunken college kids use as an excuse to cop cheap feels, yeah?" Spike queried.

"Yeah, because elevators, public transportation, and other pieces of everyday life _weren't_ designed with cheap feels in mind," Cordelia responded wryly. "Look, what I'm saying is, there isn't anything the PTB can do. They're like children in the face of Chaos. But you? Chaos is what feeds you, essentially. Chaos is a part of you. It doesn't see a need to stop you. All you have to worry about is the First."

"_All_ I have to worry about, she says," Spike muttered. "You _do_ realize that the last time I faced off with the First, I turned into a crispy critter, right? Where was your bloody precious Chaos then?"

"How do you think you got that amulet that helped defeat the First?" Cordelia inquired. "Buffy gave it to you, Angel gave it to Buffy, Wolfram and Hart gave it to Angel, and Lindsey McDonald gave it to Wolfram and Hart. What side of all of this do you think Lindsey took?"

Spike said nothing. He didn't need to. Lindsey used to be one of Wolfram and Hart's top employees, but when his moral compass started spinning wildly, he had to quit. And yet he had come back and caused far more havoc than Wolfram and Hart would have ever anticipated. If _that_ wasn't Chaos, then Spike was a natural blond.

"I'm not omniscient," Cordelia told him lowly. "I can't see how everything will end or why things have to go the way they do. And since I can't leave this realm, there's really nothing I can do to help. All I _can_ do is place my money on the better team and hope that it wins. It hasn't failed me so far."

They were silent for a long time. Finally, Spike shrugged his shoulders. "Right, then. Thanks very much for the story time, but I think it's time I head back to the real world. All your gabbing made me thirsty. Got anything else you'd like to share? A sudden premonition? A nifty new weapon that will help me cleave the First in two? If the Slayer got a mystical halberd, I should at least get an enchanted chainsaw, or some such thing."

With that faint smile still playing on her lips, Cordelia responded, "Everything you need will come to you in time. All you have to do is recognize it when you see it." He was about to mock her for her enigmas once again, but then she told him, "And Spike? Not that he actually knows anything about baseball, but he told me that, as of right now, you're stepping up to the plate. Don't strike out."

Before he could say anything, the whiteness of the room became blinding, and Spike was forced to close his eyes. After a few moments, he opened them again, staring out into the darkness that enshrouded Sunnydale's remains. He looked down thoughtfully, realizing that Cordelia had just passed along a message from Angel.

Slowly processing all of the information he had been given that night, he turned around and headed back for Doyle's car.

* * *

"What's taking so long?" Robbie demanded.

Illyria shot him an irritated glance. "I am no timekeeper, lycanthrope. It is none of my concern how long it takes for her to return, if she is to return at all. You should sit and occupy yourself with reining in the lust you feel for the Sidhe."

"What do you mean, _if_ she returns at all?" Robbie shot back. "And... wait, what? Lust?"

Though it seemed as though Illyria wanted to ignore him, she also knew that she would get no peace if she didn't answer him. "One cannot simply walk into the Chaos Chamber and remove the primeval stone from its place. She is communicating with forces that the likes of you would be unable to even imagine, forces that can destroy everything you've ever known. If she is to attain the Chaos Stone, she must prove herself worthy." As though in afterthought, she added, "Lust. Physical attraction. You wish to breed with her. It's disgustingly obvious."

Despite the revelation that Violet might not emerge from the final leg of their journey, Robbie couldn't help but choke a bit on his own embarrassment brought on by Illyria's blunt words. "I do not! She's my friend. You're mistaking worry for... for that. I don't...."

Illyria gazed at him with her impossibly large eyes, sizing him up. Finally, as though to pass the time, she told him, "This shell was human once." As she spoke, she looked down at her hands and flexed her fingers, as though marveling at that fact. "There were traces of her memories left within my mind, wrapping themselves around my psyche like smoky tendrils. I realized that she was considered beautiful, desirable. I learned that she had cared for a man in such a way that mortals would describe as love. And he had, along with that painfully complex and ultimately useless emotion, also felt the heat of lust for her. It has, since then, been one of the easiest sentiments for me to discern among other males."

Returning her eyes to the man who hadn't gotten up from the floor since she had him about the throat, she concluded, "Your scent, your body language, your voice... it is all indicative of lust. It is as clear as the love she has for you."

Even as Robbie blinked up at her in confusion, she turned her attention towards the opening door to the Chaos Chamber. Seeing the amber light flooding out from it, Robbie stumbled to his feet and attempted to stagger towards it. He was stopped by Illyria's arm coming out and hitting him in the chest. "You are impure," she told him. "Getting too close will kill you. I do not wish for the Sidhe to mourn you."

Violet eventually emerged from the room, clutching something to her chest. Judging by Illyria's statement, this something was the Chaos Stone. "You were successful, then."

Robbie looked at the object in Violet's arms. It was a pale color with what looked like a yellowish tint, leading Robbie to believe that it was sandstone. They had come all this way and nearly got killed _seven times_ in one night, for a piece of sandstone. Oh, wow, his professor was going to _love_ his excuse for being late to class in the morning.

It wasn't until several moments of silence passed that Robbie noticed that Violet wasn't looking up at them. He was about to call to her when she finally raised her head and gave the both of them a small, absent smile. Her glamour spell was slowly pulling itself back together, and so she no longer appeared as pale and gaunt as she really was. Or maybe the spell didn't change her appearance so much as it changed everyone's feelings towards her appearance. Maybe _that_ would account for Illyria's idea about "lust."

"We should go," Violet finally said.

It wasn't until he heard her voice crack that Robbie realized she had been crying. "Vy?" Instead of paying him any mind, she turned her attention to Illyria, who had walked towards a far wall. She was avoiding him. She had never done that before.

Putting a hand to the wall, Illyria somehow managed to open up some kind of portal. The silver vortex stood out against the rest of the cavern, but Violet hardly paid it any heed. She was already walking towards it as Illyria told them, "This will take you back to where you started. Give the half-breed my regards; I miss hitting him."

Robbie practically had to chase Violet through the portal, not even sparing a parting glance to the Old One who had so disturbed him. When they left the portal, they were just outside the cave, the cold night air making the previous events seem almost dreamlike. When Violet continued to walk towards where they had left his car, Robbie hurried after her, though he didn't dare try to pull her to a stop lest she drop the stone that they had worked so hard for. "Violet, whoa. Slow down. What... I mean, what happened in there?"

He expected an explanation. He expected details and commentary and the whole nine yards. After all, Violet was generally a chatty person, so it was possible that she was simply anxious to get away from the cave and would tell him everything so long as they were mobile. "I just traded in my life for my family's worst enemy."

Though he continued to question her, she offered no other explanation.

* * *

"We should really just get you a coffeemaker for the basement," Oz stated.

Looking up at the small man that entered the kitchen, Doyle wearily offered a single wave before turning back to look out into the dark night. He hadn't slept since he returned from Violet's apartment, and had decided to perch himself atop of the kitchen counter, warily looking out into gloom. Spike was gone, off to who knows where with who knows who, and he had just sent Violet on what could have potentially been a kamikaze mission. Yeah, he was a regular fighter for the Powers That Be.

"Judging by the fact that I don't smell whiskey oozing from your pores," Oz continued, stifling a yawn and eyeing the various used mugs that littered the counter, "I'm thinking that you're actually drinking for the caffeine intake. Is the apocalypse scheduled for tonight, or is there just something on the late, late, late show that you don't want to miss?"

Doyle didn't answer right away. He simply continued to gaze deadly out into the night, making Oz narrow his eyes. Doyle was almost as talkative as Xander had been back in high school... coming from someone like him, silence was _not_ a good thing.

"Do you ever wonder what's the point?" Doyle asked at last. "Not to get all philosophical, as this is an ungodly hour for that kind of talk. But really... what's the goddamned point, yeah?" Looking at Oz, he heatedly continued, "You die, you get brought back. You survive, you get killed later on. We stop one minor apocalypse only to have it pushed aside by a major one, and for what? Not even vampires live forever, given their risky lifestyles. So if we know that nothing's eternal, why do we keep fighting?"

Crossing his arms over his chest, Oz inquired, "What else would we do with our lives?"

"Anything!" Doyle exclaimed. "Eat, drink, and be merry!"

"For tomorrow, we die," Oz finished. "That's how the whole quote goes, if I'm not mistaken." Leaning against the refrigerator, he told him, "Now, I might be only on life number one, but I know enough to know that when Death comes knocking at my door, he'd better have some tranquilizer guns and a set of brass knuckles if he intends to take me down. Life's worth fighting for, Doyle. I don't think I'd ever figure that out if I'd never seen death."

Doyle said nothing for a long time before whispering, "It always comes back to fighting the good fight, eh?"

"It's the only fight worth fighting," Oz replied. Moving towards the empty mugs, Oz began setting them into the dishwasher as he proclaimed, "Despite not wanting to get philosophical, that's some heavy thinking to be doing at this time of night. What brought that on?"

As Oz grabbed a water bottle from the refrigerator, Doyle began telling him about the respective missions he had sent Spike and Violet on. "Spike, I know, can take care of himself," he told Oz, getting up and dumping the remainder of his coffee in the sink, "so short of Zeus just coming at him with a thunderbolt or something, I can't fathom any reason for him to not come back tonight. But Violet and Robbie... God, that was stupid of me. Even if Violet _can_ make it through the trials, who's to say that Robbie even stands a chance? And if he can, it would've been smarter to call you instead."

"Yeah, I wouldn't have minded a little late-night adventuring with a side of imminent doom," Oz remarked dryly. In a quieter voice, he stated, "You did what you thought was right. And you're Vision Man. I'm thinking that if you translated a vision disastrously wrong, someone Up There would have seen to it that you got a clearer picture before anything too bad could happen."

"Don't bet your life on that."

Oz and Doyle turned around at the sound of Spike's voice. He had come in through the backdoor, looking decidedly exhausted, but nothing looked bloodied or broken. Doyle took little comfort in that, considering what the vampire said next. "Had me one of those sit-downs with one of the Higher-Ups. From what we could suss out, someone's been screening Irish's calls from the Powers. Only certain things are coming through, so we've probably been missing out on a whole lot of fun."

"Oh _balls_," Doyle lamented.

"If he's only getting certain visions," Oz asked, suddenly uneasy, "then how do we know that the ones he's getting can be trusted?"

"Violet and Robbie!" Doyle realized.

"Are fine," Spike assured. "Or dead. Can't be certain, really. But the channels you're getting are coming from a trusted source, so there's no need to worry about them having fallen into a trap. I just can't promise that they didn't get themselves killed out of their own stupidity."

"You are a genuine well of love and compassion," Doyle remarked dourly. "So has it finally happened? The Powers called you up and officially gave you the mantle of Champion?" In a lower voice, he muttered, "Formally taking up Angel's place?"

"Someone has a touch of blind admiration for the dearly departed," Spike noted, though not at all maliciously. "You can work out your Batman/Robin sentiments in peace. I've actually been told that I'm _not_ a champion, was _never_ a champion, and in all likelihood, will never _be_ a champion. And yet the fate of the world still rests on my two shoulders. Lots of sense there, eh?"

"Wait," Oz brought up. "If you're not a champion from the Powers That Be, does that mean there's someone else out there who is? Then what about all this stuff about us having met you here as though by extraordinary coincidence?"

"I'm not meant to be a general," Spike answered. "And you're not meant to be led. Which is just as well, since those kinds of terms almost tore the Slayers apart back when they were about to face off with the First. And, speaking of coincidence, guess who's behind all of the recent shenanigans?"

"Oh good," Oz mentioned lightly. "So a vampire, a werewolf, and a half-demon are going to go head-to-head against the ultimate evil without a battle plan or even a remote idea of what's expected of them. Should be a piece of cake."

"Make that _two_ werewolves," Doyle remarked, pointing towards the open backdoor. "And a faerie. A very sullen, mysterious-looking faerie that has the half-demon concerned."

They turned to see Robbie and Violet enter the kitchen, the latter looking much more withdrawn than any of them had ever seen her. Though he was somewhat disturbed by the fact that she didn't look this bad even after being attacked by Angelus, Spike merely remarked, "Oh good. She's still alive. Got our rock, pixie?"

Violet looked up at Spike with an empty gaze. Against her chest, she hugged an amber-colored stone about nine inches in height and six in width. With no expression on her face, she shakily held the stone out towards Spike, proclaiming, "_Your_ rock. The Chaos Stone is to be entrusted to you as its protector until the time comes for it to be used. You're to use all of your strength and resources to see to it that it doesn't fall into the wrong hands, lest you become singlehandedly responsible for the end of the world."

Quirking an eyebrow, Spike remarked, "Nice speech, love. Who made you rehearse it?" Receiving no answer from her, Spike worried a bit about the lack of humanity he saw behind her eyes. Whatever it was that she had been made to do to acquire the stone, it had taken something away from her that changed her in a fundamental way. He wondered what that was as he reached out and accepted the stone, surprised by how lightweight it was. "I'm trusting you can help fill in the blanks in terms of what good this overgrown pebble can do."

"It would probably be a good idea not to trust me to do anything for you for a long time," Violet answered. "This isn't my fight anymore, if it ever was." Looking to Oz and Doyle now, she added, "Good luck. You'll need it over the coming weeks." Turning to Robbie, she told him, "Robbie, I'd like to go home now."

She didn't wait for an answer before simply turning around and exiting, leaving Robbie to look at the three men in front of him. Seeing that they were looking at him somewhat expectantly, he ran a hand through his thick hair and searched for something to say. Finally, he looked to Spike and mentioned, "She, uh, sends her regards."

"Who does?"

"The Old One," Robbie answered. "I forget her name. Blue-haired chick, hits like a Mack truck."

"Illyria?" Spike asked, confused. "Where'd you see her?"

"She was guarding the, uh, Chaos Chamber, or whatever it was called," Robbie explained. "I would've liked a warning about Old Ones being stronger than Superman, but she supposedly spared my life because she didn't want to watch Vy grieve or whatever."

"Ol' Blue's working for Chaos and learning about human emotions?" Spike mused. "The world's a funny place."

Nodding uncertainly, Robbie responded, "Well, if she's a friend of yours or something, you should probably see about recruiting her. She's got a whole lot more muscle than me or Vy ever had, so she'd be a good substitute for us."

"Substitute?" Doyle asked. "What, you're abandoning your pack?"

"Violet and I only got involved because Marissa was in trouble," Robbie reminded them. "Marissa's not here anymore. And even if she was, she made her peace with us." Looking to Oz, he added, "I'll still come around during the full moon. That is, if you'll have me. I figure I'd pose less of a danger in here than out there."

Oz looked at him steadily before nodding at him. "Do what you need to do, man. So long as you're not hurting anyone, we won't stop you. It's not like we're an official team or anything, right?" This last question was directed towards Spike, who looked down for a moment.

"I told the pup," the vampire finally said, "and I'll tell you the same. If you're having doubts, best to get out of here while you can. If you're not in for the fight, pack up the pixie and disappear."

"I never said I'd do that," Robbie interrupted. "This is still my town. My home. If something's coming and it starts to get bad, I'm protecting the people I care about. That's what this is about. Violet needs me right now. So I'm just protecting her."

Spike was about to snap at him and tell him to get the hell out now, but he remembered that Robbie didn't listen to him the first time he had brought that up, back when Spike had just discovered that he was a werewolf. He sneered at first, but then he remembered something Cordelia told him: he had a _choice_. That's what marked him as an agent of Chaos, wasn't it? He wasn't predestined to be good or evil... it was entirely up to him. So if Robbie chose to back out now, it was best to just let him. No one can _force_ him to be a hero, not if he was siding with Chaos. "Get out of here, then," he finally remarked. "And don't trip on your guardian complex on the way out."

Though Robbie seemed to take offense at Spike's tone, he said nothing as he turned around and went to join Violet.

* * *

"Are you sure this is what you want, brother?"

"Y-yes, yes, a th-thousand times, yes." Roderick was beginning to get more than a little irritated at the person holding the little glass vial. He was annoyed by the smell of various recreational drugs coming off of him, he was annoyed by the way his dreadlocks hung like dirty snakes across his shoulders, and he was mostly annoyed by the black horns sprouting from his forehead. It reminded Roderick that this creature was a demon with a decent amount of power, whereas he was now nothing more than a human.

"This is some powerful stuff," explained the being who was only known as Jay-man. Holding the vial in front of him, he watched the thick, bright red liquid as it oozed and shifted within its container, glowing vibrantly in the dark of the demon bar. "Giving something like this to a human can cause a lot of trouble if no one's watching him."

Hardly realizing that the human Jay-man was referring to was himself, Roderick testily replied, "It's n-not for a human." Seeing Jay-man's confused gaze, Roderick rolled his eyes and realized he'd need to go into far more explanation than he would have wanted.

"Not for a human?" Jay-man asked. "You're pulling my leg, right, bro? This might be some rare, powerful stuff, but it's designed with the human soul in mind. Giving it to a demon would probably have no effect-"

"It's for a vampire," Roderick interrupted. "It's... c-c-complicated. The vampire has a h-human soul."

"Spike," Jay-man realized. Roderick was surprised by the immediate recognition. He knew that Angel had made a name for himself, but he hadn't known that Spike had become popular among the demons in the world. Well, maybe "popular" was the wrong word.

Roderick was about to argue when Jay-man put the vial back in his pocket. Picking his briefcase up from the floor, he laid it out on the table and opened it, leaving Roderick blind to what he was doing. Finally, Jay-man closed the briefcase and held out another vial, this one glowing a bit more dimly than the previous one. "Use this," he told him. "It's a weaker dosage."

"Weaker?" Roderick asked, infuriated. "Why would I want a weaker-"

"The effects will last for a shorter amount of time," Jay-man explained coldly. "That's the beauty of it, isn't it? That it wears off? So if it lasts long enough for him to do some damage, don't you want him coming back real quick? He'll wonder how it happened. Wonder why he snapped. Wonder if the demon's as gone as he likes to pretend it is."

Realizing what Jay-man was getting at, Roderick's scowl slowly turned into a wide grin. Reaching out for the vial, he uttered, "Jay-man, my friend, you are absolutely p-_perfect_. Especially when it c-c-comes to psychological t-torture."

"Well, I find it's the best kind," Jay-man stated, almost modestly, reaching into his inner jacket pocket and withdrawing a notepad and pen. "All the other kinds of torture usually involve blood and I'm just not that into the mess." Opening his pad to a clean page, he started scribbling something down as he continued, "Now, I've got you down for the payment for the first dose, but considering who the recipient is and the fact that you might want other hits in the future, I'm feeling mighty generous."

Roderick hardly heard him. He was busy watching the ruby liquid within the vial drip from one side to the other as he moved it in his hand. This was what he needed. This was _all_ he needed. He could have spared himself that nonsense with Angelus; everything he needed to get at Spike was sitting in this little glass vial. And as Spike had never seen his human face, it would be ridiculously easy to slip it into his drink one night. "How l-long will the effects last?"

"On that batch, I'd say about six hours."

Six hours. Spike would be sans soul for six hours. How much chaos would he be able to cause in that time? How many lives will he snatch up after reawakening his bloodlust? And what would he do at the end of that allotted time, coming out of it to discover the remains of his friends littering the ground at his feet? "How m-much will it cost?"

Smirking, Jay-man replied, "For destroying Spike, I'll give it to you for free."


	8. Harder to Breathe

_How can you say that my behavior's unacceptable?  
So condescending, unnecessarily critical  
I've got a history of getting very physical  
So watch your step, cuz if I do, you'll need a miracle_

"Harder to Breathe" by Maroon 5

* * *

"So, this is what he looks like when he goes feral, then?"

Spike nodded at Doyle's question, keeping a cautious eye on the cage that held a fully-transformed Robbie. Doyle hadn't realized that the basement Jordy was allowing him to sleep in was also where they housed Robbie during the full moon. The first night had been all right, due to Robbie's unique werewolf composition allowing him sentience on the first and third nights of the moon. But seeing Robbie's monstrous werewolf form tonight basically promised that Doyle would be getting no sleep until sunrise.

"This is the mongrel in all his glory," Spike remarked. He was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, giving Robbie a hard gaze as the wolf crashed against the bars of the cage and tried to go for his throat. "Feisty bugger. Almost makes me wish I was soulless enough to put him out of his misery."

"Spike!"

"What?" Turning to Doyle, he scoffed at the man's horrified outburst. "It's not like we're teammates or anything. He's hardly come around at all since he came and brought back that bloody rock, which has been doing nothing but collecting dust all this time. So, as a concerned citizen of this sleepy little town, isn't it natural for me to look at a furbag like that and want to end him before he gets the chance to end us?"

"Natural or not," came Jordy's voice from the stairs as the boy made his way down, "I wouldn't suggest taking it on as your civic duty. I doubt that even _you_ stand much of a chance against a wolf that big, and we can't afford to lose you, O Protector of the Enigmatic Chaos Stone. And besides that, he's my friend. Whether he's fighting in your little war or not, _that_ much hasn't changed. Kill him, and I'll do worse to you."

"You and what bloody army, toothpick boy?" Spike jeered. "Just because you loom over your older cousin, don't think that that makes you some kind of manly man. Hell, the _Olsen twins_ loom over your cousin."

"True, I need to walk past a wall twice to cast a shadow," Jordy smirked. "But remember, I don't have as good a control over my werewolf form as Oz does." Showing off the turquoise prayer beads he had wrapped around his right hand, he added, "If I lose a study buddy, I might just be upset enough to turn. _Then_ I'll cause some _serious_ problems."

"Please don't," Doyle pleaded. "I'm still reeling from the revelation that I'll be sharing living space with a crazed werewolf for a while. I don't need to know that you can turn at any moment and yet are _not_ locked in a cage." To Spike, he asked, "_Why_ isn't he locked in a cage?"

"For that matter," Jordy brought up, "why aren't _you_?"

"Who?" Doyle asked. "Me?"

"Yeah," Jordy replied. "Both of you."

"What, are you daft?" Spike asked. Pointing to himself and Doyle respectively, he declared, "Vampire. Demon. _We're_ not affected by the full moon. Only the mangy beasts known as werewolves are, remember?"

"_Everyone's_ affected by the full moon," Jordy proclaimed. "They just don't realize it. I was reading about it in psych class today. Interesting stuff. I mean, everyone knows that women's bodies are in tune with the lunar cycle, but men? You'd be surprised."

"Yeah, yeah," Spike shrugged. "The origin of the word lunatic comes from the supposed facial tick certain people get when they're affected by the full moon. Old wives' tales, the lot of it. If that's what they're teaching you in college, then I'm happy I had none of it."

"Oh, I don't know," Doyle remarked fondly, lying back on his rollaway bed. "Co-ed dorms, wild parties, obscene amounts of alcohol. Plus the occasional stint at actually _learning _stuff. All in all, I'd say that college was probably the best seven years of my life."

"Seven?" Jordy asked, dumbfounded.

"Hey!" Doyle exclaimed, sitting up. "Let's not forget that I hold a Master's degree, all right? Years of hard work and hours of dissertation-writing, that took. What, do you think I just forged my name onto a diploma or something?"

"Truthfully," Spike responded, "I wouldn't be at all surprised." Cracking his knuckles, he headed for the backdoor and told them, "Keep an eye on Marmaduke over there. I'm going to patrol the cemetery, make sure none of our little ghosts get antsy in the company of someone who can't fight them off."

"A little late for that," Jordy told him. As Spike came to a stop and looked back at him, he continued, "Just got a look at the evening news. A family of five died in a fire just a couple of miles away from here. Father Callahan over at Saint Mary's said that one of the victims had called him an hour ago, saying she saw the ghost of her first husband and he told her that he had been poisoned by her current husband. Said the whole family deserved to go to hell."

"Mother of God," Doyle breathed out.

"God's having less and less to do with this as the nights wear on," Spike murmured grimly. He had no doubt that the news would be in all of the papers the next day, along with the names, ages, and pictures of each of the victims. Five people, supposedly two parents and three children. And they were still only the beginning. "If we don't get a sign from the Powers soon, the entire town's going to be filled with stories like that." Looking to Doyle, he asked, "Can't you meditate or something to be sure you can get all the visions you're supposed to be getting?"

"Don't look at me," Doyle brought up, raising his hands defensively. "I didn't know I was missing out on anything until you had that little chat with the Higher Being. I'm as ready for brain-destroying visions as I've ever been, but if something's standing in my way, I'm guessing we need to find out what's blocking the reception."

"Fine," Spike mentioned. "I'll look for ghosts, witches, _and_ stray werewolves. Who knows? Hopefully one of them will put up a decent fight_ and_ provide us with some answers." Knowing what was on the tip of Jordy and Doyle's tongues, he snapped, "And yeah, I'll be careful. As careful as I always am, at any rate."

"Silly boy," Doyle remarked after Spike was gone. "I was almost looking forward to sweeping the streets clear of his dusty remains."

* * *

It took him nearly half an hour longer to get to the cemetery than it should have.

It seemed as though Spike needed to stop every few steps to stake another vampire or chase a demon off. They had all began congregating in Woodridge since that summer, and November had already rolled around and he was still no closer to finding out _why_. There was nothing notable about this little backwater town, nothing except for a psychedelic nightclub for the kiddies and an overwhelming sense of familiarity.

Spike didn't have to dwell on why he was feeling a sense of déjà v. There was a strange tingling on his skin, a certain restlessness about him. He had at first attributed it to remnants of the psychological torture that he had been put through recently after a run-in with a certain vengeance demon, but now he knew better. It was the exact same thing that had driven him to Sunnydale, other than the prospect of adding another Slayer to his list of conquests. There was a Hellmouth nearby.

It wasn't open yet, and it probably wasn't active. But it was definitely down there, churning away and waiting for the right sacrifice or incantation to burst its doors wide open. How many of these uglies that Spike was systematically taking out were probably jonesing to be the one to cast open the gates of Hell?

"You know," he told the vampire that he was currently beating up, "there was a time when I was just like you. Well, not _just_ like you, as I would never get such a God awful haircut, but you get what I'm saying. I was just a caustic little whelp, out for blood, mayhem, anarchy... you know: _fun_. But there comes a point in every vampire's unlife when he just wants to stop, settle down, get himself a soul, and save the world."

Finally staking the vampire, he watched the ashes scatter in the wind as he let out a single, embittered laugh. "Who am I kidding? No vamp in his right mind wants that. Explains why I was off my tit once I got that bloody spark back. No, I'm no good with the lectures. Leave that rot for Angel."

Putting his stake away, he looked up at the night sky. Angel. He was up there, watching him. Spike would have ordinarily pegged such thoughts as nothing more but spiritual malarkey, but Cordelia had pretty much given him proof of that during his encounter with her several days before. Angel's last conversation with Spike ended with acknowledging that sometimes a new hero has to "step up to the plate." And then Cordelia proclaimed that "he" wanted her to tell Spike not to strike out.

"Lucky sod," Spike muttered, continuing on his way to the graveyard. "You get the nice cars, the nice clothes, the sweet deal in L.A., _and_ you take the coward's way out, and what do you end up with? Box seats to watch little William doing the work that _you_ should've done. I swear it to the heavens, I'll get even with you for this, Liam. Just watch."

Spike hadn't been wandering within the confines of the cemetery for more than five minutes before he had the sensation of being watched. Stopping in his tracks, he could hear the sound of someone skittering away, apparently realizing that he had caught on. Turning towards a row of mausoleums, he quirked an eyebrow and remarked, "Well, that's not nice. What kind of person runs off without a simple 'how do you do?'"

Using hardly any effort, Spike leapt onto the roof of the nearest mausoleum and rolled off the back end of it, effectively cutting off his stalker before he could get away. Landing deftly on his feet, he said, "Now, how about you-" Cutting himself off, he got a clear look at the demon under the full moon and groaned. "Oh for-... Clem! What the hell are _you_ doing prowling about?"

Clem had cried out in surprise upon seeing the vampire drop down in front of him. Putting a hand to his chest, he proclaimed, "Jeez, Spike, calm down! You almost gave me a heart attack! I was just looking for a poker buddy of mine. A vamp. He never showed up to the game tonight. You need to not jump to conclusions, pal. Aren't you concerned about your blood pressure?" Seeing Spike's blank expression, Clem realized, "No, I guess you wouldn't be."

"Jesus, Clem, moving about in the cemetery all quiet-like is gonna get you in one hell of a lot of trouble someday," Spike sputtered out. Reaching into his pockets, he found a pack of cigarettes and set about lighting one as he told him, "Besides, I should think you'd know better. If a vamp's playing poker against you and doesn't show up, it's likely he either got himself dusted or can't afford to pay up on last week's bets. You shouldn't go around playing with vampires, especially not the soulless variety."

Scrunching up his face at the smell of the cigarette, Clem waved the smoke away from his nose as he asked, "You _are_ aware that we met way before this whole soul thing became an issue, right? I mean, you were the baddest vamp in all the land, and you were still a solid poker buddy."

"Wouldn't ya know," Spike murmured, taking a long drag from his cigarette, "I'm one of a kind. But these dime store vamps you associate with are little more than, well, a dime a dozen. Any distinguishing features about him? Maybe I can help you find him."

"There's not really anything special about him," Clem replied. "Brown hair, brown eyes. Average height, average weight, dresses like the average twenty-something Californian. The only thing Dave has to make him stand out is that ridiculous mullet that he refuses to update."

"Mullet?"

"Yeah."

Closing his eyes and sighing, Spike whispered, "God awful haircut."

"Oh Spike," Clem said. "Did you stake Dave?"

"Yeah, I think I might've," he replied. "Sorry about that. Only good vamp's a dead vamp or an ensouled one, after all. Hope the bugger didn't owe you a tidy sum."

"Nah," Clem remarked with a shrug. "More of the opposite, really, so you did me a favor. Thanks."

"Oh," Spike replied, surprised. "Good on me, then."

Zipping up his denim jacket at the sudden gust of a cold wind, Clem asked, "So, how'd the thing with Drusilla go? Did she and her vengeance demon boyfriend ever get around to exacting revenge, or are you still lying beneath the radar?"

"How's this for a shocker," Spike told him, "it wasn't Dru at all. Turns out, it was Harmony." Giving Clem a quick version of the situation that led to Harmony's very timely demise and his own stint in a psychological version of Hades, Spike leaned against the stone wall of the mausoleum and kept an eye on the graveyard. There were still ghosts hovering about, and it sounded like there were even some teenagers in the distance, off on a ghost hunt before getting the crap scared out of them and running off.

Spike felt that he really should have been more concerned about just _how_ these kids were getting scared, but he found that he just couldn't muster the energy. Finishing his story, he plucked the cigarette from his mouth and looked down at it with a grimace. "Spike?" Clem asked. "You okay? You don't look so good, buddy."

"Don't know if it's the cigs or what," he replied, dropping the rest of the cigarette on the ground and stamping it out. "But for some reason, I've got this weird taste in my mouth. It's almost like...." _Like blood_, he suddenly realized.

For a split second, Spike was no longer Spike. He was a woman, battered and weak, the sharp taste of her own blood washing over her tongue. Above her stood her husband, the man responsible for the beating, and she was angry, so very angry, but also so tired from putting up a fight that she just wanted to lay down and rest, close her eyes and sleep.

Fearing that his horrifying visions brought on by Sadrahd the vengeance demon were returning, Spike made a startled sound and darted forward, shaking himself free of the grip he didn't know he had been in. Nearly crashing into Clem, he whirled around to see two ghostly hands protruding from the wall of the mausoleum against which he had been leaning. Upon discovering that he had escaped, the ghost of the woman that had been murdered by her husband stepped out from behind the wall, gazing at the pair oddly.

"All right," Spike declared, not liking how easily he had fallen for that. "All right, now that was completely uncalled for. You keep your hands to yourself, all right, chit? At least until I get enough drinks in me to allow me to actually _enjoy_ that sort of thing."

"Enjoyment is temporary," the ghost told him, looking at Spike quizzically. "It is like life. Like death. Ultimately, it means nothing."

"Is this the part where I run away?" Clem asked, guardedly.

"This is the part where you shut up and let me sort through this," Spike shot back, never taking his eyes away from the ghost. Every time he had a direct encounter with one of them, he came away with a little more information. Of course, that bit of information usually led to a lot more questions, but he was used to that sort of thing by now. "I've asked this question of your brood for weeks now," he told her, "and none of them have managed to satisfy my curiosity. Now, I _know_ the First is behind this-"

"The _First_?" Clem squeaked out, shocked. "Oh man, no one ever mentioned anything about the First."

"Clem, shut your gob before I do it for you, yeah?" Though Clem was probably the least likely to feel Spike's wrath, the vampire was in no mood to play around. The ghosts had a tendency of being cryptic to the point of being almost useless, and since he couldn't kill something that was already dead, he didn't like the idea of the ghosts being unhelpful nuisances. "The lady's gonna maintain her distance and answer me one simple, straightforward question. How in the bleeding hell is the First managing to wake you lot from your eternal slumber and pull you about like this?"

He doubted if any of the ghosts knew much of anything about their purpose in the grand scheme of things, but he needed to know. If there was some kind of spell that the First was conducting, if there was some kind of high priest minion or something... _any_ information would be better than no information at all. Hell, even a riddle might prove useful, if he could get Oz and Doyle to help him work it out.

The ghost seemed confused at first, but then merely smiled. The smile turned into a grin before the grin evolved into a giggle. Soon, she was cackling wildly, setting both Spike and Clem decidedly on edge. "Eternal slumber," Clem laughed nervously. "It looks pretty good, right about now."

"Shut it, Clem," Spike retorted.

"Confused little soul," she finally said, slowly approaching Spike with an outstretched hand. He took a step back and ducked away from her reach, leaving her to stop directly in front of him, a look of pity in her eyes. "You think you know, don't you? You think you have all the answers? But you haven't yet learned. There _are_ no answers. All that is simply is. All that will be will simply be. You should know this. It's in your nature."

"It's chaos," Spike spat out. "Yeah, I had me a lecture on that not too long ago. I know a little something about how the Random is becoming just a bit more randomized, sweetheart. Spare me the overview and get to the mechanics of the damned thing, unless you fancy sinking into oblivion for all time."

"Oblivion _has_ no time," the ghost responded. "Time is just a measurement, and measurements are but scientific fact. Science is a wretched, useless philosophy."

"Well, it brought us motorcars and moving pictures, so I won't abandon science completely yet, if it's all the same to you." Despite the wryness of his tone, Spike was quite serious when he added, "I've got the distinct impression that you're toying with me. Aren't you, princess?"

Seeing no response from the spirit other than a narrowing of her eyes, Spike sneered and told it, "You go ahead and have your fun. In the end, that's all it is for you, yeah? Just fun. But like I told the Casper with the twisted neck a couple of months ago, I'm pulling the welcome mat out from under you right quick. So keep talking. Keep giving me what I want. Because every word out of your sorry mouth is just another stake through your heart, got that?"

Spike watched as the figure in front of him slowly began to vanish from view. Stakes through the heart shouldn't scare it off. But that wasn't what did it. No, he had noticed something about this ghost. It had been the first female one he had spoken to personally, and he supposed he just hadn't recognized it in the males. But when he had called it "princess," that changed things, didn't it? He didn't call very many people princess. That name was usually reserved for someone in particular. Someone very close to him. Someone who had been _his_ princess. _His_ "first."

Turning to look at Clem, Spike murmured, "Okay, so maybe I was wrong when I said Dru wasn't involved."

* * *

Oz and Doyle were less than happy about Spike's latest hypothesis.

"I am _so_ not amused," Oz said, not for the first time. "You see this face? This is my unamused face. I don't use it very often. This expresses the depth of my unamusedness." Pacing before him, Spike shot him a curse before settling back deep into thought.

"Okay, hold on here," Doyle brought up after a deep swallow of his coffee. "I've never seen her for myself, but if this Drusilla really _is_ involved, shouldn't we be _not_ sitting around fretting and actually go out to look for her? She's basically a creation of Angelus, and we all know how messed in the head _he_ was."

"You won't find her unless she _wants_ you to find her," Spike stated slowly. "She's completely bats, but she's clever. She's... ugh!" His words faded out into an irritated groan as he punched his hand through the wall by the staircase, just a few inches away from where Jordy was sitting.

"You're severely depreciating the property value of this house," Jordy remarked.

"Jordy, you should be in bed," Oz reprimanded.

"No," Jordy replied matter-of-factly, rising to his feet to move away from the vampire who was now banging around on his side of the basement. "I should be studying about operant conditioning. Quite frankly, I find this much more entertaining _and_ educational, especially if the world might not exist long enough for me to take my final exam."

"Not your fight," Oz said tiredly. "You're not ready. You're not strong enough. Any of this sounding familiar?"

Seeing that Jordy was about to retaliate, Doyle stood up and came between the two of them. "Whoa, whoa, okay, let's not turn this into a family feud. Regardless of where Jordy's strengths lie, we need him right now. As it is, it's just the group of us. And Mr. Snarly McSnarlingPants over there." The last was said with a gesture to the still-feral Robbie, locked away in his cage and starting to growl at the sight of Spike's flared temperament. "Just about every blood-curdling story I've ever heard about Angelus _or_ William the Bloody includes some mention of Drusilla, so we're dealing with someone old, evil, and completely loose upstairs. Spike knows her the best, so I'd like to hear _why_ he thinks that it'd be completely useless to at least try to find her and give her a taste of mean, hard wood." When the other men in the room all turned to give him an odd look, Doyle realized what he said and quickly closed his eyes, as though to avert the unwanted imagery. "I _meant_ a stake!"

Choosing to ignore the unintentional innuendo, Spike responded, "This is a game. For her. Dru might've assisted in a near-apocalypse or two in her time, but it was never for the sake of wanting to watch the world burn. She was just in it for the excitement. Hell, to be blunt, it got her off. The bloodlust was always stronger within her than in any other vampire I've ever known, so if there was a chance that people'd be getting their throats cut, she was all over it.

"Not only that," he continued a bit more grimly, "but now she knows that I know. Or she suspects that I suspect. She knows me well enough to know that she won't need a plan to get to me. She knows how to cut me in ways you wouldn't believe. Attacking her blindly now will force her to work on instinct, which can be brutal. Giving her time to attempt to work out a plan-"

"Could be _fatal_," Oz mentioned. "Especially if she's working with the First."

"Dru doesn't work with anyone," Spike told him. "She plays nice, yeah, for a while. But there's always something she wants. And when she gets it, she'll drop the dead weight like a cross and go about her business."

"So what does she want now?" Jordy asked.

"Me," Spike answered.

"Not that he's cocky," Doyle remarked.

"I'm the one that got away," Spike explained. "She found me, stalked me, turned me. I'm her pet project. If she could take away my soul and turn me into a demon once, you can be damned sure that she'll try and do it again."

"Is that possible?" Oz asked. "Can you re-vamp a vamp?"

"Well," Spike brought up, "I once tried to torture the ever-loving soul out of Angel. Even if it can't be done, I'm sure it'll get her rocks off."

"So, wait, she's got a connection of some kind to the ghosts and... what?" Doyle queried. "She's using them to drive the world crazy one by one?"

"Agent of chaos," Spike whispered. "More and more of them keep cropping up. She's like my foil. My dark side. Me as I should have been."

"You're being just a little self-centered here, aren't you?" Jordy remarked. "Yeah, she might be your sire, but maybe this has nothing to do with you. Maybe you just happened to show up in a town that was chosen to be the next location of a Hellmouth at the same time that she started playing the zombie master."

"And this same town just happened to house a few refugees from Sunnydale," Spike brought up skeptically, "and be not too far away from a primordial artifact called the Chaos Stone that can destroy all of creation as we know it?"

After a moment of silence, Jordy said, "I've heard of stranger coincidences. Still, it doesn't mean it's about you. Maybe she got interested in the First after hearing what it did to Sunnydale. Maybe she practically has some kind of hero worship for it."

"Or the female version of a boner," Doyle mentioned.

Putting his head in his hands, Spike sighed, "I don't know what disturbs me more; the idea of my sire getting it on with the First Evil, or your horrifying lack of knowledge of female anatomy."

"Look, the point is," Jordy continued, "for some reason, she teamed up with the First. If she didn't learn how to make the ghosts rise, then that means there's someone else involved who's pulling Pinocchio's strings while she talks through their mouths. She's out there having fun and getting her Morticia on without you, so there's no solid reason to believe that her involvement has anything directly to do with you. And on top of that, there's still no solid reason to believe that she _is_ involved at all. Unless I missed the beginning of this conversation, this is all just conjecture, right?"

"Just conjecture," Spike affirmed. "Except that I know in my gut that it's right. The way the ghost talked... the way _all_ the ghosts talk. If she's not personally reciting their lines, there's definitely some kind of shared consciousness going on there. Major mojo, as someone would have said. Add that to the fact that she's something of a psychic...." Looking to Doyle, he asked, "Are we getting the big picture?"

"My visions," Doyle realized numbly. "If she gets premonitions, then that means she can potentially tap into the Powers That Be. My death severed my connection with the Powers, and maybe when it was brought back, she could have tuned into that and...." Gaping at Spike, he murmured, "That's why I've only been getting the visions Cordelia's sent me. She and I have a connection. A special bond."

"Before you go all Chuck Woolery on me," Spike remarked, "there's work that needs to be done. It's coming to a head, boys, and it'd be wise for us to stay away from Dru until we know what the hell she's been doing with herself all these years. Oz, I want you working with Robbie all day tomorrow. We need as many werewolves in tip-top shape as we can get. Doyle, go to the public library and bring back any and every text you can find on demons, magic, and anything slightly non-human."

Seeing the two men nod, Jordy sarcastically asked, "What should I do? Lend Doyle my library card?"

"No," Spike told him. "You're going to the University library. I doubt that your librarian will be another Rupert Giles, but I'm guessing that there are different materials available to students than there are the normal civilians. Claim it's for a research project or some such thing."

"This is sounding very much like a plan," Oz remarked. "What will _you_ be doing?"

"I met up with an old friend of mine," Spike replied. "A demon by the name of Clem. I figure I'll play a few hands of poker with him and see what sorts of idle rumors he's picked up. Then, providing no one gets themselves eviscerated, I assume we'll all reconvene at an ungodly hour and start pouring over some horribly dull books and make absolutely no headway before something terrible happens that will blow the whole thing wide open."

"Oh," Oz commented. "So it's basically high school all over again."

* * *

Doyle couldn't remember the last time he had set foot in a library.

Scratch that, he _could_ remember, but he chose not to. It had been the library at the elementary school where he taught, filled with lots of stories about the adventures of Thomas the Tank Engine and Amelia Bedelia. He had sometimes read to the children and encouraged them to write their own stories, never knowing that he would be the subject of more weird and fantastic tales than even _their_ imaginations would ever fathom.

He tried not to utter a low whistle upon entering the Woodridge Public Library. It was two stories tall and lined with more books than he could recall seeing in one place, but then, books hadn't been a really big part of his life lately. He should make it a point to try and change that.

Seeing the front desk empty, Doyle looked towards the reference section and saw a middle-aged woman seated at the desk, engrossed by her computer. Approaching her, he saw her hastily try to hide her game of solitaire behind a professional-looking spreadsheet document when she saw him coming. "Hello," she greeted. "Can I help you?"

"Sure hoping you can," he replied. "I'm, uh, writing this book, you see. A horror novel. And I'd like to base it on as much fact as possible, so I was wondering what you might have here in the way of, I don't know... demonology, magic, apocalyptic prophecies, and the like?"

He was mildly surprised when she turned to her computer and started typing in the keywords. Either Woodridge was seeing a lot more demonic activity than he had realized, or the Stephen Kings of the world all started out in this little town. "Can you be more specific, sir?"

He was about to ask if they catalogued their books based on the _type_ of demon, but he didn't want to appear too knowledgeable about the subject. There might be only so much weirdness she could take, after all. "No, I can't, actually," he responded. "I'm looking for anything pertaining to the supernatural. Maybe I can fish out actual plot ideas from some of the silliness in these texts, huh?"

Judging by the look she gave him, he had overdone it. "Sir," she said steadily, turning to face him coolly. "You're clearly not a local. You're not another one of those people from the _Sun_ or _Enquirer_ here to dig into our alleged ghost infestation, are you?"

"Oh, me? No!" Doyle tried to grin charismatically, but that was hard to do considering that he was sorely wishing that he had gone with the research paper angle that Spike had suggested. "No, I don't even read those things. Not unless I'm in the dentist's office. Which is rarely ever. All right, that was too much information, I suppose." Dropping the act, he decided to see if honesty ever really _was_ the best policy. "Look, I'm new in town, and I've seen things that are scaring the hair right off my head. If these things really do exist, then I'd just like an idea of what I'm dealing with here, you understand?"

Her expression softened slightly at his somewhat more truthful approach. "I understand very well." Turning back to her computer, she continued to type as she told him, "We've got a lot of hits under those subjects, so unless you're carrying a hundred dollars in change for the copy machine, you'd probably be better off taking the books home with you. Have you gotten a library card yet?"

"Uh, no...." He was beginning to think he really _should_ have taken Jordy's card, as he surely didn't have any kind of proof of address on him, making this a wasted trip.

"Go to the front desk and talk to the circulation assistant," the librarian told him as her printer began to start up. "If you have an ID or something with your address on it, she can add you into our system within a few minutes."

"Right," Doyle remarked, accepting the printed list of books from the librarian. "That'd be... swell. Thanks." Glancing down at the multi-page list, he wondered how many of these books he could scrape the security bar off of and hide under his jacket.

Stopping at the still-empty circulation desk, Doyle grabbed a highlighter from a tin cup and began marking down the titles that seemed the most relevant. If nothing else, he could smuggle these out today and come back for the rest of them later, either with Jordy's card or "after hours" with Spike.

"Oh, sorry! I'll be right with you!"

Realizing that the circulation assistant was coming back and thought that he had been waiting for her, Doyle looked up and responded, "No, actually, I'm just-" He stopped when he saw the girl that had just moved to sit behind the desk. When she saw his face, her brown eyes widened in surprise, and he could almost see a blush rise to her cheeks, leaving him to wonder over her reaction.

"Doyle?" Marissa Harris asked.

"Marissa," Doyle remarked, looking her over. "Hi."

"Hi," she replied uncertainly, giving him a similar assessment. "Sorry, I... just didn't think I'd see you here. You don't exactly strike me as a... a library patron or anything."

"Well, I've got some surprises left in me," he answered, putting the highlighter back and giving her a small smile. "Same can be said for you, apparently. You don't exactly strike me as a librarian."

"Circulation assistant," she corrected. "You need a degree in library science to be a librarian. I'm just the girl who checks things in and out."

"I'm sure the guys that come up to your line have more to check out than just books," he complimented. "Speaking of, I heard you checked out of town. I'm guessing you just couldn't bear being away from me, but I'll understand if you choose a different explanation."

She uttered a small laugh, though he noticed she was still uneasy. He knew that her return to Woodridge wasn't voluntary even before she stated, "My aunt kicked me out." He was about to offer her words of sympathy, but she quickly shrugged it off. "Hey, I get it. She's got a baby on the way and can't afford to take in her unemployed niece. And it's just that much harder to get a job in an unfamiliar place, you know? Figured I'd come back home, work full-time here at my old summer job, and if the world doesn't end, maybe I'll earn enough money to get my own place. Far away from here. Far, far away. How _is_ Ireland at this time of year, anyway?"

Chuckling at her words, he replied, "I wouldn't know. It's been years since I've set foot anywhere on the continent. Got myself pretty firmly settled here, for better or worse."

"You don't keep in touch with family?"

Doyle pursed his lips and tried to figure out the best way to answer that question. "On my mum's side, sure. We drop a line with one another every so often. Well, less now that they think I'm dead." Seeing her startled glance, he explained, "It was just easier to let them think I went out like a hero. Heroes don't come back for a life of mediocrity, am I right?"

"If you ask me," Marissa replied somewhat bitterly, "heroes shouldn't come back at all. No one should." Sighing, she remarked, "Sorry. That came out wrong." Before he could say anything, she looked at the sheet of paper Doyle had been highlighting and asked, "What are you looking for?"

"Oh," Doyle answered, almost robotically, "writing a book and want to make it realistic-"

"The ghosts are still causing problems, huh?" For a moment, Doyle had forgotten that just because Marissa didn't know about his own demon lineage, it didn't mean that she was ignorant to everything that had been going on in Woodridge. Heck, that was the reason she _left_ Woodridge.

Her eyes scanning the titles that Doyle had managed to highlight, she breathed, "_The Origin of Satan_. _The True History of Demons_. _The Beginning of Time: A Summary_. Well, judging by what you're planning on researching, I'm guessing you made some kind of headway as to what's causing this. Can I take a stab at this and say it has something to do with the First Evil?"

"By all means, take _several_ stabs," Doyle responded. "Anything to make that mother bleed and slow it down."

Flipping through the pages of the list, Marissa remarked, "Are you going to look into the OriginisChronicles?" When Doyle asked her what that was, she looked up at him. "Basically a summary on how the world was created and why. Supposedly written by some prophet or something sometime in the B.C. era and passed down orally until a monk wrote it down sometime in the seventeenth century, I think. There are only a few dozen extant copies throughout the world, two of them in California. There are questions concerning its authenticity, but I would've thought it'd be the main book on your list."

"Never heard of it," he told her. "But mark it down and point me in its direction. And while you're at it, see if you can pull a few strings and dump my name into your system so I won't have to hide it under my shirt on my way out. I want abs of steel, not abs of moldy old books."

"I can set you up with a library card," Marissa said, turning to the computer at her right, "but that won't enable you to take the Chronicles home. Books that old are kept under lock and key downstairs in the archives section. If I'm not mistaken, that one's probably in a display case or something."

As she reached into a drawer and removed a blank library card, Doyle asked, "What've I got to do to be able to get my hands on it, then?"

With a snicker, she replied, "Sneak into the library after we close and smash your hand through the glass." Realizing who she was talking to, her face went serious as she turned to gawk at Doyle. "You wouldn't _actually_ do a thing like that, would you?"

"I've served enough jail time in my life," he answered with a smirk. "Though if you want to keep your job, you'd better hope that I don't decide to tell Spike about your proposed tactic." Seeing her downcast eyes, Doyle realized that he had just entered into what was probably an uneasy topic. "Oh! Hey, sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine," Marissa told him as she continued programming the library card's barcode into the computer. "It's... not fine, no. Not really. But he... Spike... told me that running away from my problems isn't going to solve anything. Won't change the past, won't have a great impact on the future. All I can do is take the stuff that happened to me and accept that it happened... and that I won't let it happen again."

Doyle observed her as she carried on with her typing in silence. Her jaw was clenched and her throat looked as though she had just swallowed back a sob. He couldn't be sure of such things, of course, but he knew one thing for certain: being back in this town would slowly drive her mad if she didn't have someone there to make things easier. "Damn right you won't let it happen again," he told her firmly. "And neither will I."

His encouraging words did little to make her feel better. Biting her lip as though wondering if she should say anything at all, she turned to him and said, "Doyle, you did all you could. You faced off against _Angelus_ and came away with nothing but some bruised ribs and a broken hand. Not a lot of men can say that."

"Right," Doyle agreed. "And not a lot of women can say that they've done _more_ than face off with Angelus and yet are sitting in a library, living, breathing, and being a productive member of society. Better than what me and the rest of Monsters Anonymous can say, being chronic unemployables and all."

"Monsters Anonymous," she scoffed. Doyle was relieved that she didn't pick up on the fact that he included himself with the monsters. "Sounds like Violet came up with that name." Almost reluctantly, she asked, "How _is_ she? And... and Robbie?"

"Not too good, to be brutally honest." Marissa hardly moved as Doyle told her about Violet tiredly bowing out from their adventures after retrieving the Chaos Stone, and how Robbie had done the same in order to keep an eye on Violet. "Something happened between them in that cave," Doyle proclaimed. "I don't know what, as they're both mum about it, but whatever it is scared them away from little old us, possibly for good."

"Robbie too?" Marissa asked. "What's he been doing during the... you know. The full moon?"

"He comes back around for that," Doyle affirmed. "But if not for the fact that he's buddy-buddy with Jordy, we wouldn't have seen him at all since then. His feral half can give Freddy Krueger nightmares, but underneath that, he's the same kid."

Marissa said nothing for a long time. Finally, she mentioned, "That's good." Handing Doyle the newly-activated card, she told him, "You're ready to go. I put my home address down as yours, and I'll see if I can extend your due dates. And, um... if you promise not to tell the others that I work here, I'll see if I can cancel any overdue fees you might incur." Seeing him look up at her, she shrugged and explained, "I don't mind them knowing I'm back, if they just happen to see me around. But I don't know if I'm ready to do the whole socializing thing, especially not here at work."

"You've got to do it sometime."

"I know," she replied quickly. "Just... not here. And not... yet. I mean, you, you're different, you know? You're... human. And I don't want to harbor these prejudices against them forever, but... it's just easier with you. I think if it had been Oz or Robbie to just waltz in here, I probably would have.... I don't know what."

Doyle was no master of human emotions or at reading people. And yet, it almost seemed as though he could sense how irritated she was. Not at him or at her former friends, but at _herself_. She really didn't want to dislike them anymore just because they weren't human. She really _was_ trying. Maybe there was hope for her yet.

Not knowing how to say all that without making it sound like he was judging her or being overly analytical, he simply accepted the card and told her, "Thanks." She gave him a small smile as he took up his lists, but said nothing as he turned away.

Instead of going out in search of the books, Doyle had a silent debate with himself. It really wasn't smart for a half-demon to try and be friendly with a girl who hates demons and who doesn't know about his demon half. If she found out by accident, she'd lose the last bit of trust she had in _anyone_ in this town, and then what would that do to her? Still, he had been hesitant about telling Cordelia, and _that_ had turned into a whole mess, since he had died just a little while after she learned the truth. Better Marissa hear it from his mouth rather than someone else's, right?

Turning back to her, Doyle quickly asked, "Do you want to get off?" Seeing her widened eyes, he groaned. "Crap, I have to stop saying things like that! What I meant was, do you want to _do something_... when you get off... of work?"

She was quiet for a long time before hesitantly asking, "Doyle... you're not asking me out, are you?"

"No," he responded, truthfully enough. Realizing something, he took on a slightly offensive tone when he asked, "Hey, and what would be wrong with me asking you out?"

"It's just... with a guy like you...."

"Guy like me?" Doyle was now confused. Did she know? Had she somehow learned that he was part-demon? Then why wasn't she avoiding him? Was she really seeing past the demon bit and-

"You know," she replied uncomfortably. "I've never dated older guys."

He blinked. Older. She had qualms with him being older than her. "Well, thanks for making me feel like a senior citizen. You know, Buffy had no problem dating guys 250 years older than her, and you're getting antsy because I'm... how old are you again?"

"Nineteen."

Pausing for a moment, he finished, "... over fifteen years older than you. God, really?"

"What?" Marissa asked, surprised. "You can't be in your late thirties."

"That depends. Do you count the years where I was dead?"

Covering her face in her hand, Marissa remarked, "Leave it to me to meet a guy where that would actually be a legitimate question."

"Either way, it's not a date," Doyle told her. "It's just... catching up time. There's stuff going on in town-stuff going on with certain people in this town-that you should know about. And I think you should hear it from a friend. And call me crazy, but I like to think of myself as a friend."

Putting her hands down, she gazed at him in silence. Doyle folded the papers in his hand in half, waiting for her response. She needed to know. If she was going to spend any amount of time in this town and if things were going to get as dangerous as involving Drusilla and the First, then it was likely that he'd be forced to use his demonic abilities sooner or later. He couldn't tell her now, and he didn't want to tell her in front of her mother, and so he was relieved when she finally answered, "Meet you at _Neon_ at about seven?"

Grinning, Doyle replied, "I'll be there."

* * *

Robbie was just getting ready to go home when Doyle walked through Jordy's front door.

"A little help here," the half-demon called. Robbie got up from the sofa and went to his side, catching about half a dozen books before they fell to the floor. Oz got up as well and went to pick up two books that had lost their battle with gravity.

"Wow," he remarked, "what did you do, clean out the entire library?"

"Damn near to it," Doyle responded, dumping the armful of books onto the nearby easy chair. "Maybe after what happened in good old Sunnydale, Woodridge decided to gear up so the same thing won't happen to them. Of course, when you're preparing for a war, the best place to start is with your library."

"Well, if you don't know what you're fighting against," Robbie remarked, placing the books he was carrying on the coffee table, "then you're not really going to have much luck fighting it. Explains why we've been getting our asses kicked by these ghosts."

"_You've_ been getting your asses kicked," Doyle corrected. "I've been holed up in the corner, searching every new demonology website that's cropped up since I've passed on. Looks like the books might just fare us better, though. Speaking of, I got a tip about something known as the Originis Chronicles. It's locked down in the archives section and the lady wouldn't even let me into the room where they keep the case it's kept in, but should anyone on our team develop a case of sticky fingers, that'd be a prime place to start."

"Originis Chronicles?" Oz asked. "I think I've heard of it. I thought it related mostly to werewolves, though. There are legends that it contains the secret origins of lycanthropy, though some scholars think it's all an elaborate hoax."

"Yeah, well, people thought that my visions were a way to turn a quick buck," Doyle proclaimed. "Which, at one point, sure, I suppose they were. Point is, assuming that oral tradition didn't lose something in translation, maybe this book's got something about the Chaos Stone. You can grab the book, translate it, and find the 'on' switch for our little rock and save the world. Have fun with that busy day, chums; I'm off to get me a shower. I'm dusty and sore, and I've got somewhere to be tonight."

"Where's that?" Oz inquired.

Brushing off his jacket, Doyle hesitated for a moment before replying, "Somewhere that doesn't involve evil things potentially coming to kill me when I least expect it." Seeing both of the werewolves look at him oddly, Doyle returned their gaze with a quizzical one of his own as he turned away. "What? A man's allowed one night to himself, yeah?"

"Doyle," Robbie called. Doyle stopped and turned to look at him, not liking that pensive look on Robbie's face. "Were you... did you eat something or stop off somewhere else while you were out?"

Confused by the question, Doyle replied, "No. Just went to the library and back."

"That's strange," Robbie replied quietly. "I smell apples."

"Well, I didn't pass a place called Eden and I didn't meet a woman named Eve, so-"

"Did you meet a woman named Marissa?" Robbie asked, already knowing the answer. "She wears an apple-scented body spray." Seeing Doyle's surprised expression, Robbie remarked, "She was my girlfriend, Doyle. We dated long enough for me to have her scent printed on my memory. Why didn't you mention you ran into her?"

Girlfriend? Doyle had known that the two of them had once been close friends, but he hadn't known that Marissa was Robbie's ex. Sincerely hoping that Robbie wasn't the jealous type, he shrugged his shoulders and remarked, "Didn't think she'd want me to. To be honest, she didn't look a hundred percent happy to see me, so I figured it'd be best to leave that alone for a bit."

"How long is a bit?" Robbie inquired, crossing his arms over his shoulders. "Long enough for us to do all the book work while you're off on a date with her?"

"Robbie," Oz warned.

"It's not a date!" Doyle blurted out. "That's the trouble with contemporary American society. You think that just because one man and one woman decide to go out and talk over a few drinks, they're automatically going to wind up in bed."

"Please don't put that imagery in my mind," Robbie nearly growled.

"We're not!" Doyle asserted loudly. "I'm going to tell her, all right? Tell her about me. Once she finds out my dad's a demon, it's not likely she'll want to do anything else than throw her drink in my face and head screaming for the hills. But she's going to find out sooner or later, so if she's planning on sticking around, I think it's best that she finds out from me."

"Don't get mad at the bloke, Hercules," said Spike's voice as he emerged from the basement. "From the looks of it, he's got the stones to tell her the truth about himself rather than risk her getting hurt by his demon half. More than I can say for you, if I recall. Besides, you and Violet make quite a pair of quitters, so it was clearly meant to be."

"Shut up," Robbie angrily remarked, flushed. Spinning around to grab his jacket from the coat rack, he proclaimed, "This whole 'us' against 'you' bull that you've been pulling on me and Violet since that night is part of what's keeping us away, you know. You might end up needing us, and all you can do is crack jokes."

As Robbie headed for the door, Spike quickly brought up, "And all you can do is keeping running away." Seeing Robbie falter a little in his indignation, Spike couldn't keep back an amused laugh. "That's what you're all doing, isn't it? You, Tinkerbell, the pup? But the pup came back, muscle man. And more likely than not, she didn't come back to run into your strong arms or trade quips with my quick wit or even to laugh at Irish's asinine pick-up lines. She's got her reasons for coming back, just like you've got your reasons for darkening that doorstep so often."

"Jordy's my friend," Robbie attested.

"Oh, bollocks," Spike scoffed. "I've got friends in Hell, but you don't see me popping down to visit _them_ this often, do you? No, you just keep coming back to us and get all tangled in your knickers just before running away again. Difference between you and the pup is, she _knew_ what she was running from, so now maybe she can square with it. You? You're ignorant and hopeless. Woodridge's answer to Riley Finn."

"To who?" Robbie asked.

"I _liked_ Riley," Oz declared.

"No one ever claimed you were a man of taste," Spike told him disdainfully. Looking to Robbie once again, he continued, "Get going, then. Run off to the faerie or to wherever it is you spend your days now. You'll have to come back by nightfall, and then we can play this game when you leave tomorrow morning." Seeing Robbie merely glance at him, Spike waved his hand impatiently. "Go on. Don't let the door hit you on the ass, and all of that."

Glaring at the vampire, Robbie sullenly reached out for the doorknob. He purposely jerked the door wide open, letting in a rectangle of sunlight and causing Spike to have to back away with a groan. Slightly cheered up by that sight, Robbie turned to Oz and said, "Tell Jordy I'll be back at around six-thirty. I've got some studying to get done tonight."

Oz nodded and bade Robbie farewell, moving to close the door behind him. After a moment in which the three men merely stood in silence, he turned around and looked at Spike. "No, really, I liked Riley. He was like a Slayer, but with guns. We should invest in more guns."

Ignoring Oz's comment, Spike looked at the pile of books that Doyle had brought back from the library. Most of them seemed like the sort of things one could find at the occult section of any Borders, but there were a few leather-bound, musty books with crumbling pages. There might just be something useful in them yet. Looking up at Doyle, he asked, "How's the pup doing?"

"Good," he replied. "Real good. She looks great."

"Too bad," Spike remarked, turning back towards the basement. "I was sort of hoping she had a nasty fall somewhere down the line and lost most of her teeth."

"Hey!" Doyle exclaimed heatedly.

"Don't act so surprised," Spike told him coldly, sparing him a glance as he got to the basement door. "If not for this niggling little soul lurking beneath my skin, I'd be wearing her scalp as a hat after what she put me through. I tried to make nice, she wouldn't have it. So if she's decided she's going to come back to this demon-infested town and still have it in for us monsters, she'd better hope that our paths don't cross. I _will_ take her out, and not in the way you're planning on, Casanova."

After watching Spike disappear down the steps, Doyle turned to Oz and asked, "So what part of, 'It's not a date,' do people seem to be having a problem with?"

* * *

For reasons not wholly known to him, Spike found himself at _Neon_ that night.

He hadn't been to the neighborhood club in weeks, especially since the scum that usually frequented the place were now bold enough to make their moves right on the street. He didn't know if Doyle was planning on meeting Marissa here, though he sort of wished that the two of them planned to do something at her house instead. Not only was it safer, but Doyle could stand to get laid.

Coming back from the bar with a glass of whiskey, Spike felt someone crash against him, almost causing him to drop his drink. Looking up, he caught sight of what looked like a young, apologetic woman with dyed red hair and hazel eyes. He knew better. Vampire. "Sorry," she proclaimed, noticing that he was glaring at her. "Didn't mean to scare you, Spike."

Blinking, he replied, "Neat trick. How'd you work that one out?"

"Well, you're kind of famous," she remarked coyly. "The renowned vampire with a soul, killing off the vampires without souls. Though I've got to say, Angel _was_ cuter." Hearing the growl rumbling in his throat, she laughed and added, "Calm down, tiger. You wouldn't turn a girl to dust in the middle of a crowded bar, now would you?"

Much as he hated to admit it, it was still too early in the game to go around staking vamps amidst civilians. Widespread panic would probably just _help_ the First in its plans, hence why the ghosts were being brought out to play to begin with. With a small smile, he asked, "Don't suppose I can convince you to take a walk with me out around back, can I?"

She chuckled before turning away from him. "I already had my workout for the night. But if you're _really_ that anxious to jump me, you can just keep an eye on me. It might just reintroduce you to the joy of the hunt."

"Not likely, Jezebel," he called out after her. He saw her slink into a corner table with a short, unassuming man that he had never seen before. From the looks of it, she was cruising for a meal. Fantastic. He really _would_ have to keep an eye on her. "Damn it," he muttered, seating himself at a table from where he could keep the girl in view.

As the female vampire sat down across from him, Roderick looked up and saw Spike staring after her. Folding his hands in front of him and breathing hard from his recent sprint, he narrowed his gray eyes at the girl and asked, "Did he seem to notice anything?"

Shaking her head, she smiled as she replied, "Are you kidding? You're such a shrimp that he didn't even notice you once he saw vamp written all over my face. He's probably watching me close now, so I should probably split."

"No need," he told her. "I already slipped the drug in his drink while he was distracted with you. You've got your pay and I've got my delivery; now, if you want to sit here and have a few drinks with me while we watch the show-"

"In your dreams," she remarked. "I was just in it for the pay and for the shot at getting back at the bastard that staked my boyfriend. If my job's done-" Seeing Roderick gaze past her and widen his eyes, she asked, "What? What is it?"

"Crap," he hissed, skulking closer into the shadows and covering half his face in his hand. "Why is _she_ here?" Looking back, the vampire saw a young girl just enter the bar, her surprised eyes on Spike. She was definitely human and didn't look like much of a threat, leaving the vampire to wonder why Roderick suddenly seemed so distressed.

Noticing his quarry's gaze, Spike narrowed his eyes and turned around. "Oh, bloody hell," he sighed, seeing who was approaching him. He wasn't sure whether to be gladdened or offended by how uncomfortable Marissa looked as she got closer, but the fact that she even tried advancing towards him surely meant something. He didn't know what (or if he should take his glass and smash it across her face before she opened her mouth) but he managed to bite his tongue until she came to a stop about a table away from him. "And look at what the cat dragged in. Remind me to shoot that bloody cat."

There was a long moment of silence before she asked, "What are you doing here?"

Giving her a perplexed glance, he gestured to his glass and remarked, "What, did someone forget that she lives in a free country? If there's booze to be had and no demons that want slaying, I think I'm allowed to have fun. Speaking of fun, I don't think I've seen your new boyfriend come in yet, so you'll have to wait. Preferably on the other side of the bar."

"I thought this was a free country?"

"If I'm not free to kill anything that annoys me, then I'm thinking there are certain limitations in even the most democratic of nations."

She said nothing right away, leaving Spike to stare sullenly at her. She wasn't leaving, nor was she attempting to join him. Just as he decided that she still couldn't figure out what she wanted and raised the glass to his lips, she spoke. "Doyle isn't my boyfriend."

It was his laughter that made him lower the glass. Shaking his head, he looked up at her and wondered if Buffy or Dawn had ever been quite _this_ stubborn during their teen years. "It doesn't much matter _what_ he is to you, Marissa. I've got more important things to work out than plotting out this week's episode of _Gilmore Girls_, or whatever sort of nonsense drama the whole you/Doyle/Robbie/Violet thing will turn out to be."

"What?"

"You haven't heard?" Spike asked as he turned to face her head-on, almost hoping to see her hurt. "Yeah, turns out your ex is harboring some sympathies for the pixie. _I_ thought he was in love with you, but apparently, I was wrong. Very wrong. He won't own up to it, but he doesn't have to. Real convenient, them being neighbors and all. No one can complain about the noise they're making."

"Okay, _stop_," Marissa declared, looking down. Spike smirked at the disgusted expression on her face, trying not to wince at the pangs of shame he felt for lying to her. In truth, he didn't know if anything was going on between Robbie and Violet at all, though he certainly suspected that there was something they were hiding from the others. Still, as Marissa herself had proved, what's a little psychological torture amongst friends, right?

"What happened to pet?" Hearing no response from Spike, Marissa looked up to see him looking at her perplexedly. "You never call me Marissa. It was always 'pet' or 'love' or... what was the other one? Pup? Am I worth the three syllables now, or am I not worth the nicknames?"

"You vain _bitch_," Spike proclaimed. "I teach you a little self-defense, stop Robbie from tearing into your liver the first time he changed into a feral mongrel, _and_ I rescued you from my soulless sire. You would be dead countless times over if not for me, and the only thanks I got for that was being blamed for every bad thing that ever happened to you and being made to feel every bad thing that ever happened to _everyone_, and now you're wondering why I don't want to be chummy?!"

"I was being manipulated," Marissa told him through gritted teeth. "That vengeance demon was twisting the truth, and I had just been tortured and raped by a vampire that was connected to you. Excuse me if I wasn't thinking clearly."

"Excuse you?" Spike sputtered. "You excused yourself. You said you needed to go off, and that was all well and good. You should have stayed gone, if you expected us to be best mates after, what, less than a month?"

"_You_ were the one that said that what you went through comes with the territory of being a champion," Marissa shot back, her hands balled into fists at her sides. "What's wrong, you're not a brave, self-sacrificing hero for the great Powers That Be anymore?"

"Matter of fact," Spike replied, a little quieter. "Turns out I got the signals crossed. Far as I'm concerned, the Powers _have_ no champion." Seeing Marissa's wary glance, Spike sighed, "Oh for God's sake! That doesn't mean I'm evil now! Still got a soul, remember?"

"Soul," Marissa scoffed. "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

"Oh, you're just a laugh riot, aren't you?" Spike jeered. "My soul means that I can choose between good and evil. And I choose to do what's necessary for the world to continue cranking out good food and decent primetime television. If you want to label that as evil, then that's your own dilemma."

Marissa simply stood there, watching as he stared into his glass. Was he waiting for her to apologize? Waiting for her to shoot another insult his way? Waiting for... something? Crossing her arms over her chest and sincerely hoping that he would be the last unexpected familiar face she'd see that night, she murmured, "If you're going to try to save the world, it'd probably be a good idea to stay sober."

Gazing back up at her, he let out a smirk. She had conceded that he was attempting to do the right thing, so he supposed that was as good as he could expect right now. Still, he was always one to attempt to push the envelope. Picking up his glass, he remarked, "Vampire constitution. It'd take a lot more than a glass of jack to get me sloppy. Speaking of, a drink would probably help loosen you up." Holding the glass out towards her, he added, "You know. For your not-boyfriend."

She stared at the glass before giving him a mirthless smirk of her own. "I don't drink. You know that."

"I've forgotten," he stated, putting the glass down. "Bloody teetotaler."

"I'm not against it," she remarked. "I used to drink in high school. Until I got smart and realized that it was disgusting and would end up making me no better than my mother. Who, by the way, told me that two pale men with funny accents have been coming around every so often to see if I was back. Doyle, I could understand. I didn't think _you'd_ care."

"I don't," Spike replied. "I've only been once. I don't know what Irish's intentions were, but I just wanted to make sure that I didn't have any reason to start worrying that you'd wish me into a hell dimension. Especially one that was reminiscent of _High School Musical_."

Just as Marissa was about to ask after the seemingly random reference, a scream was heard from the entranceway, causing Spike to jump to his feet just as a blonde girl came racing in. She held her left arm against her chest. It was bleeding. "Help," she called out, "somebody call the cops! There's a giant dog loose in the streets!"

As the people in the club all scattered for their cell phones as the same time, Marissa looked up at Spike. "It's the last night of the full moon," she realized. "Werewolf?"

"Possibly," Spike replied.

"Robbie?"

"Less likely," Spike answered, though he couldn't know for sure until he went out there. Turning to Marissa, he handed her his drink and absently told her, "Drink it or guard it. Just stay here and wait for Doyle."

"Spike!" Marissa called, seeing Spike race for the exit. When the door burst out inwards and a large, fur-covered being crashed against Spike, _Neon_'s patrons erupted into screams. With a gasp, Marissa jerked backwards, bumping into another table and spilling some of the drink onto her white sweatshirt.

She moved to put the glass down on the table before turning to the fight between the werewolf and vampire. Thinking of something, she peered back at the drink. "Liquid courage," her mother used to call it, right? Knowing she'd need all the courage she can get and deciding that Spike's drink of choice couldn't be much worse than the cheap liquor she used to steal from her mother's stash when she was younger, Marissa grabbed the glass and quickly downed the contents.

Slamming the glass down, Marissa coughed for a moment before wiping her mouth and turning back to the fight. "Oh man," she groaned lowly. "That was _rank_." Reaching into her purse, she took a step towards Spike and the werewolf that she desperately hoped wasn't Robbie, meaning to get out a silver pen or _some_thing to aid Spike.

Even as the irony of her wanting to assist Spike crept into her mind, Marissa found that she couldn't move. Or rather, she _did_ move. Instead of stopping at the floor, her foot seemed to go through miles of earth and she felt herself falling to the floor as a deep coldness washed over her. Her cheek hit the ground hard, and it occurred to her that she should have felt some kind of pain, but her body was in too much shock over whatever it was that was happening to her.

On the floor, Spike made a face as the werewolf's hot, foul breath fell upon him. "Why don't you buggers ever pop a Mentos before the moon rises?" With the rhetorical question out of the way, he grabbed for a bit of a broken chair and rammed it through the beast's shoulder, wincing at both the sound it made and the thought of the wounds it'd wake up with in the morning. "Sorry mate," he murmured, pushing the creature off of him. "But if it had been me, a wooden stick would have done _far_ more damage."

Seeing the wolf wrench the wood from its shoulder, Spike realized that it probably knew that as it struck out at him with it. He managed to dive towards an overturned table, watching as the wolf dropped the potential stake and raced out the door. _Could it hear me?_ Spike wondered, rising to his feet and staring after it. _Why would a drooling mutt like that use a weapon on me rather than tear right in with teeth and claws?_

Deciding that there was only one way to find out, Spike gave chase, never giving Marissa a second thought.

* * *

"Just _how_ many dates do you think a resurrected man gets to go on in this day and age?"

Jordy glanced up at Doyle, an amused look in his blue eyes as a response to the man's irritated question after noting that they were running late. "I haven't taken a census on it or anything," he replied. "Besides, didn't you just get through telling Oz and Robbie that this _wasn't _a date?"

"Well, it's not!" Doyle protested, parking his car outside of _Neon_. "It's a not-a-date. I'm just... abbreviating it, you know."

"Uh-huh," Jordy remarked dubiously as they got out of the car. "And is it customary, during most not-a-dates, for one to ask for an impartial third party to join him for the beginning portion, to 'lighten the mood?'"

"I told you," Doyle said, leading the way towards the club. "I don't think she knows you're a werewolf. If she doesn't then maybe the two of you could strike up a conversation before revealing what you are. And based on her reaction-"

"You can decide whether or not to chicken out before revealing your big secret?"

"I _won't_ chicken out," he shot back, knowing full well that he probably would. Heck, that was the main reason Jordy was really there, right? To make sure he'd be held accountable for doing what needed to get done. "I just... girls get skittish, you know? No law that says a man can't test the waters."

"Whatever, man," Jordy told him. "All I know is that you owe me a burger and onion rings for dragging me out here, on one of the wolf nights, too. I just... whoa." He stopped then, sniffing the air before moving to get a better look at the front of the club. "Huh. Looks like _Neon's_ decided to redecorate."

"Oh yeah? New chairs, windows, what?"

"Try a lack of a door," Jordy remarked, approaching _Neon_ a bit more carefully. "Along with a distinctive ambience shift. They went from 80's music video to the aftermath of a 70's kung-fu flick." As Doyle stepped in besides him to get the same vantage point, Jordy shook his head. "I don't like this. I smell werewolf all over this mess."

Looking at the remnants of the glass door and the splinters of wood from several pieces of broken furniture littering the floor, Doyle asked, "How can you tell?"

"_Because_. I smell werewolf all over."

"Oh, right," Doyle realized.

Glass crunched beneath his shoe as he carefully entered. Though there were less people around the entrance than normal, it looked like whatever had happened had happened long enough ago that the patrons were able to move on. It seemed that _Neon_'s proprietors didn't want to lose business on a Friday night, so they simply cranked up the music and probably handed out free rounds.

A couple was on their way out, and Doyle gingerly touched the man's shoulder and asked, "Hey, mind telling me what went on here?"

The man was obviously drunk and saw that as some sort of threat, but his girlfriend put a hand on his chest as she laughingly chided him. Looking at Doyle and Jordy, she explained, "Some wild dog just crashed in here about fifteen minutes ago. Landed right on this British guy. It looked like he knew what he was doing, though, since he ran out after the thing. Probably an off-duty animal control guy. Steve from security is moving around the block to make sure the dog doesn't come back, then he's going to come in and clean up this mess. They really oughta hire more people in this dive."

"Uh-huh," Doyle replied, pretending to quickly lose interest. When the couple left, he and Jordy exchanged glances. "A British guy who knew what he was doing. Wanna place a bet and say that Spike's dog-walking right about now?"

"I _hope_ it's Spike," Jordy admitted, having to speak uncomfortably loud over the music. "While he's not exactly a cuddly Sesame Street character, at least his soul's good enough that he won't hurt the wolf anymore than he has to."

"God, you just brought to mind horrifying images of Angel and Spike as Bert and Ernie," Doyle muttered, heading for the bar. "Place _is_ a bit understaffed," he noticed, seeing the lone bartender fulfilling scores of orders. "Maybe I could do with a bit of honest work for once."

"Honest work? You?" Jordy nearly laughed as he sat himself down on the one free stool at the bar. "And Spike's next in line to be Pope."

"I think he's Church of England," Doyle mused. "They're not Pope-friendly, if I recall." When the bartender finally noticed them, he ordered Jordy's food, along with a beer and a Sprite. Leaning back against the counter, he looked around the dancing throngs of young adults. "I hope Marissa doesn't flip out when she sees the door. Worse yet, hope she wasn't here when the whole thing happened. She probably bailed on me."

"Yeah right," Jordy replied. "If Spike was here, she probably jetted way before she even saw the werewolf."

"That Spike, man," Doyle commented. "What a buzz kill." Standing straight, he looked towards the center of the group of dancers. He thought he saw someone familiar. "Huh... well, looks like Marissa made our date after all."

"Date?" Jordy asked with a smirk as Doyle began heading in that direction.

"Abbreviating," he repeated, walking backwards as he talked to Jordy. "Guard the drinks with your life, sir. I've got a girl to drag over here before laying some big stuff on her." That said, he turned and disappeared amidst the dancing crowd.

Turning back to the bar and thinking about it, Jordy murmured, "Oh _man_, I hope that wasn't a double entendre."

Awkwardly elbowing his way through the dancers and smiling at the occasional single-looking girl, Doyle eventually made it to Marissa. He stopped, uncomfortable, upon seeing that she was exuberantly dancing with two guys, both of them looking like they just stepped out of a Calvin Klein advertisement. Telling himself that he _sure_ was happy that this wasn't a date, he shoved his hands in his pockets and coughed loudly, trying to get her attention.

Even as he realized that the music was far too loud for him to be heard, Marissa looked up and met his eyes. "Doyle!" He was relieved by her bright smile as she moved towards him, quickly forgetting about the two men that were left looking after her. Doyle could see that she was breathing hard and had a slight sheen of sweat on her face. Judging by that and her mussed-up hair, she had been dancing for a while. "Nice of you to show up."

"Yeah, sorry," he remarked. "Got a little tied up with... you know... the dogs."

"Robbie and Oz," Marissa realized quickly, grinning at their names. "Yeah, we had a run-in with one of their distant cousins not too long ago. Ugly thing, too. I'll take Robbie over that son of a bitch any night of the week."

Doyle was mildly surprised by her choice of words, but tried to pay no mind to it. "Uh, right. Well, Robbie's certainly a nice-looking young man. He's got that whole clean-cut, apple pie thing going for him, and he's got those silly growths on his arms. What are they called again? Oh, right. Muscles."

"Do I need to leave you alone with your thoughts?" Marissa asked coyly. Stepping closer to him, she lowly remarked, "Besides, muscles aren't everything, you know. There's also personality. But personality's for wimps. There's eyes, nice blue eyes that keep on staring at you when they think you're not looking. There's hair, the kind that you can really run your fingers through. There's lips-"

When Marissa had actually run her fingers through Doyle's hair and reached up as though to kiss him, he grabbed her hand and took a step back, surprised. "Okay," he remarked, finally piecing it together. "Judging by your newfound talkative nature and the smell of my dear buddy Jack coming off you, I'm going to guess that you're drunk."

"Why?" Marissa asked. "Because I'm telling the truth? Because I've realized that humans are pretty much nothing but the form of flesh over muscle over bone? Come on, that's what we are, right? That's what your buddies at Monsters Anonymous would like me to believe, right? That humans and werewolves and all of us are just bundles of neural impulses and animalistic urges. We all eat, we all sleep, we all, you know, do other stuff."

"Marissa," Doyle stated steadily. "You. Are. Drunk."

"As a goddamned _skunk_," she proclaimed loudly.

Though Doyle didn't want to encourage her, he couldn't help but laugh at her response. "Come on," he told her, taking her hand and gently leading her out of the throng. "Jordy's by the bar with the drinks. You'll steal a couple of his onion rings and drink something nice and caffeinated, and you'll be right as rain in a few."

He stopped when she pulled away from him. "No," she told him. "I'd rather dance. Besides, you don't go stealing a guy's food. They get testy, and then they get vicious. And while Jordy's not exactly my mortal enemy or anything, I don't wanna be the one to plug him if he decides he's going after finger food. I like my fingers."

"What, are you saying you're scared of Jordy?"

"Would that surprise you?" Marissa queried, raising an eyebrow. "Or, what, you think that just because I don't talk about Jordy being a werewolf that I don't know about it?" Seeing Doyle's disappointed expression, she scoffed, "Oh man, you think that I'm Captain Oblivious, don't you? Oz looks after werewolves, and he also looks after his cousin. I put two and two together back in kindergarten, D. You can't tell how I feel about Jordy? Fine. I'll _show_ you."

Widening his eyes, Doyle stepped in front of Marissa, meaning to block her way as she moved forward. "Whoa, hey, wait a minute-" He was cut off when she violently shoved him away, causing him to crash into a group of dancers.

"Hey Jordy." Jordy jerked back when he felt a pair of hands on his shoulders and heard a voice surprisingly close to his ear. Turning around, he didn't know if he should've been relaxed or even more worried when he saw Marissa standing behind him, a playful smile on her face.

"Hey," he replied, keeping his tone light enough. "Came by with Doyle, thought we'd have a chat. Where is he?"

"Is that a question, or the beginning of an interrogation?"

"You tell me."

Marissa grinned at him then, letting out a small laugh. "You're cute," she told him. "Real cute. Hey, let's forget that question. Here's a new one." Shocking him by putting her arms around him and sitting on his lap, she quietly asked, "How do you feel about motels?"

"Marissa!" Doyle called, just managing to get to the pair. The cry sounded like it was trying to be a warning, but he was too perplexed to give it the proper weight. Whatever he had expected her to do to Jordy, it certainly wasn't _this_.

Jordy held one of his hands up to Doyle to stop him, doing his best to ignore the instinct that told him to hold on to her so she wouldn't fall. Never taking his eyes off of Marissa, he remarked, "Personally, I think they're dirty and unsanitary. If I want that, I can just sleep in my basement. Can I ask what this is about?"

"Do you have a problem knowing when you're being hit on?" Marissa asked.

"Not at all," Jordy responded. "I'd just rather it not be you." Seeing Marissa's widened eyes and realizing that he hurt her feelings, Jordy looked around, trying to find some way to change the subject. "Got a little sloppy there with the drinks," he noticed, seeing the stain on her sweatshirt. "Friends don't let friends drink and dance. Not only does it get messy, but the aftermath shows up on You Tube."

Smirking, she answered, "This? It was Spike's drink, so it's not like it cost me any money on booze. Besides, I thought guys liked it when girls were a little bit dirty." Moving one hand to slowly pull down the zipper of her shirt, she asked, "Or did you just want to watch me peel it off?"

Noting the discomfort on the boy's face, Doyle walked up to them and sternly told Marissa, "All right, that's enough." Grabbing her arm, he pulled her off of Jordy, this time prepared for any surprise shoves. "What's gotten into you?" Doyle asked, his question more literal than it would ordinarily be. "This isn't you."

"I told you," she retorted, yanking herself out of his grasp. "I'm drunk."

"That's _not_ like you," he repeated, grabbing hold of her shoulders. "You don't drink. You told me that yourself. I even ordered you a Sprite because that's what you said you preferred."

"Aw, how sweet," she remarked sarcastically.

"Marissa," he firmly said, giving her an involuntary shake, "this _isn't_ like you. Spike spilling his drink on you isn't enough to make you go on a binge, so why don't you let us help you? Was it the werewolf? Did it scare you? Did Spike say something?"

"Oh, just bug _off_, will you?" Marissa groaned, disengaging herself from Doyle. "Do you think you know me? That you understand how I work? You saw me after the whole Angelus thing and saw a messed up little girl, and yeah, she needed help. But now, just because I don't choose to run to a knight in shining armor and instead decide to loosen up, _that's_ when you try to go all therapist on me? I'm having _fun_. I'm being someone who isn't creeped out by the fact that Jordy might just turn on me. Way to have a double standard, D."

Not liking the attention they were getting by some of the others at the bar, Doyle closed in on her and fiercely whispered, "This _isn't_ about double standards, all right? You're acting strange, and I...." Looking down at the spot on her shirt, Doyle trailed off before asking, "Did you say that was Spike's drink that got spilt on you?"

As though confused and somewhat frustrated that Doyle's antagonism just faded away, Marissa answered, "Yeah. Half of it. Decided to down the rest, and then Spike ran off and I figured it was safe to let go. Be me. Be me for real, I mean."

Doyle quickly met her eyes, sensing another meaning in her words. She reached a hand towards his face, as though she meant to caress him, but he simply grabbed her hand and looked at her with a great deal of concern. "Marissa, that drink... I think it might've done something to you. You need to come with us-"

"Threesome action?"

Closing his eyes and trying his best not to be unnerved by the crude question, Doyle continued, "I think something might have happened to you. Please, you have to come back to the house with Jordy and me. We'll fix this."

She looked at him for a long time before glancing at Jordy. Though he didn't know what was going on, he seemed to believe that Doyle did, and so his worry was sincere. Returning her gaze to Doyle, she smirked and replied, "Nothing broken, sweetheart. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a night to enjoy."

As though anticipating some kind of resistance from Doyle, she pushed him in the midsection with both hands, effectively getting him out of her way and knocking the wind out of him. Jordy stumbled to his feet to catch Doyle before he lost his balance, and by the time they righted themselves, she was gone. "Okay," Jordy remarked, his hand going into his jacket pocket for his prayer beads. "Overdoing the alcohol, much?"

"I wish it were that easy," Doyle murmured, his eyes scanning the club for Marissa. "A bit of hooch won't stick around for longer than a few hours and leave you with nothing but a massive hangover the next morning."

Also looking for and finding no trace of Marissa, Jordy thumbed the prayer beads in his right hand and tried to keep himself calm. Being out on one of the nights of the full moon and then getting an unexpectedly close encounter with his friend's AWOL ex wasn't exactly helping him. "Okay," he said, "so what is it, then?"

Praying that he was wrong, Doyle replied, "I think it's some kind of demonic possession."

* * *

With his hands in his pockets, Spike looked up at the darkened building of the Woodridge Public Library.

He had walked around the entire block, scoping for weaknesses in their alarm system. There didn't appear to be anything other than a standard control box that could easily be cracked even _without_ over one hundred years of experience in sneaking into places he shouldn't. Still, he was after the Originis Chronicles. The staff wouldn't even let Doyle near it in broad daylight; if they had any brains, they surely would make certain that it'd be only _more_ difficult to get to it come nightfall.

Of course, Spike knew, that would imply that anyone in this dinghy little down had any brains at all. Unless someone was working some kind of magic to keep them rooted in place or blinding them to the involvement of the cemetery's ghosts to the recent murders, there was no reason for them to simply carry on like it was another perfect day in Suburbia. As far as he had been able to tell, even the basic crime rate hadn't gone up.

_Then again, that's about to change_, Spike thought to himself as he easily scaled the wrought iron gates surrounding the building. Landing silently on the other side, he strolled around the side of the building, finding a set of stairs that presumably led to a basement storeroom or some such thing.

His eyes scanned the dim doorway for wires or other signs of an alarm system, but he stopped when he saw that the door was ajar. Tilting his head and deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, he nudged the door open and crept inside. He couldn't hear the sounds of any overworked librarians doing whatever it is an overworked librarian would do, and so he began walking down the dark corridor.

_Seems a bit easy_, Spike thought, suddenly wary. _Doyle happens to hear tell of a book that might just help us with the Chaos Stone, and when I pop up at the library unexpectedly, the door's just wide open. No one even knew I was coming, since I was off with that werewolf-_

It was the thought of the werewolf that stopped Spike in his tracks. Oz had mentioned something about the Originis Chronicles being rumored to hold the origin story of the werewolves. And the beastie that Spike had chased out of _Neon_ hardly put up much of a fight, choosing instead to turn and run off at a speed that had nearly surprised Spike speechless. What if the wolf was one of the new breeds? Stronger, faster... smarter? What if it had heard about the Chronicles being in the library and decided to sneak in, get it, and had just stopped off for a bit of a snack before coming across Spike and turning tails?

Narrowing his eyes as he continued to ponder over this, Spike thought he might know who the werewolf in question was. He hadn't heard about any new lycanthropes coming into town, and there was only one that could be considered part of this new generation: Robbie. The boy still didn't have complete control over himself, and he had been there when Doyle announced that the Chronicles were located in the archive section of the library. True, Spike recognized Robbie's wolf form, but it changed little by little every month, depending on which night of the full moon it was.

Just when he decided that he would be able to smell the nauseating stench of rabid werewolf in the hall, Spike picked up on another scent. It was softer than he had expected, but not at all unfamiliar. Rolling his eyes, he muttered, "Crap."

Coming across an open doorway with a small cylinder of light shining through, Spike peered through and saw Marissa Harris sitting on a desk, a large tome spread open on her lap as she flipped through the pages in the meager illumination provided by a penlight.

She blinked as the overhead lights came on and the door shut behind Spike. Seeing the vampire in question, she didn't even get a chance to say anything before Spike noted the broken glass of a nearby display case and spoke up. "Punch your way to the goods, then? I might not know a lot about work etiquette, but I'm sure that would probably get you fired." As Marissa shut off her flashlight, Spike noticed the raw skin on her knuckles. She really _had_ punched her way into the display case.

"What's the matter, Spike?" Marissa asked, closing the book and holding it against her chest. Spike narrowed his eyes, not liking the empty smile she flashed him as she added, "Upset that I'm taking a page out of your book?"

"Don't know how literal you're being," Spike remarked, "and I don't think I care to find out. If that's the Originis Chronicles-"

"It is."

"-then I suggest you hand it over."

"Why?" Marissa got up to her feet, still clutching the book against her. "You wouldn't even know about this book if it weren't for me. I told Doyle about it, and I'm the one who had the keys and the balls to get to it. It's my ass on the line once the library discovers it missing, so I think I've got a right to look at it."

"Won't disagree," Spike told her, wondering if he should attempt to approach her. There was something chilly about her gaze, something eerily familiar. "Still, you'd have to admit that it's a bit foolish sitting at the scene of the crime. If you want to look at the pretty pictures, you-"

"This isn't about me glancing at it before leaving it with you and the rest of your little team, okay?" Marissa shot back. "I need this book. It has information I want."

"What, a nice little spell for how to further torment your vampire friends?"

"Not everything's about you, Spike," she darkly replied. "This is about me. Something's happening to me, and I need to figure out what it is."

Spike paused for a moment before nodding. "Seems that way. Care to tell me about it?"

"I think you know, don't you?" Marissa remarked. "You know even better than I do. And this book knows even more. I didn't understand it at first, didn't quite get it. But there's a feeling... like suddenly being free without ever knowing that you were trapped. And part of me feels like I should be disgusted, but the majority of me just doesn't care."

Spike suddenly felt a cold stab of something travel down his spine. Pity? Fear? Maybe it was just a disgusted sort of bewilderment. Whatever it was, he whispered, "You've lost your soul."

She stared at him for a long time before nodding. "Yeah. That's what I've managed to figure out from the book. Didn't think humans could survive without a soul, but hey, guess I was wrong."

"And you think some little instruction manual's gonna help you get it back?"

"Oh, you're dense, aren't you?" Marissa laughed. "I came here figuring that you or one of your buddies would want the book, and I thought it'd be fun to see if I can actually get to it without getting caught and then pass it along like a peace offering. You don't bug me, I don't bug you. But then I looked through it and realized that there was a lot of stuff here about the nature of souls, and how 'God' realized that humans were no different from animals without having a bit of Heaven's light inside of them. That's how Brother Montgomery describes a soul. 'Heaven's light.' Without it, humans are cold, empty, instinctive... everything _you_ were when you didn't have a soul."

"That sounds about right," Spike agreed, finally ambling towards her slowly. "Humans without souls are just animals. Worse than that, they're demons. Animals don't have any sense of logic or understand the concept of right and wrong. But humans do. And if they ever manage to lose their soul, they figure they don't have much else to lose, so why not experience with wrong?" In a quieter voice as though trying to comfort her, he added, "We can fix this, pet. "

"Pet? I thought I was a vain bitch," Marissa brought up. "The funny thing is, you were wrong. I wasn't vain. I worried and cared and felt. And now? I just don't. But what you and Doyle don't get is that there's nothing to fix. Not anymore. This is the way I was created. Nothing's broken. Something's gone, but nothing's missing."

"This is the part where you speak in parables, then?" Spike asked, knowing full well that he wouldn't be able to convince her that she was wrong. He knew what it was like being soulless. You didn't _want_ a soul. You didn't _want_ that burden again. You just wanted to _be_. He was the only known exception to that rule, and he had only learned that after years of indulging in his darker urges. "You're free, fine. I get that. So go off and enjoy the night. All I ask is to be able to get a look at that little book you've got with you."

"So that you can save the world?" Marissa scoffed. Spike had begun circling around her, and he saw that she was circling backwards, not willing to give him any kind of advantage.

"You don't give a piss if the world gets saved or not," he told her. "Like I said, I get that. All you care about is the here and now, and you're not as psychopathically deranged as Angelus, so I don't think you're out to destroy the world or anything. So how's this for a barter: put the Chronicles down, and I won't bother tracking you. You can go and have fun, so long as you don't hurt anyone or get in my way."

Marissa tilted her head at him, gazing at him quizzically. They had circled enough so that she was nearly at the door. Spike was certain that she believed she was some sort of superhuman now and would be able to outrun him. A little freedom can give one some funny ideas about what they're capable of.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Marissa inquired. "I know now. I know what a soul does to people who consider themselves 'good.' You couldn't let me walk out of here. Not when there's a chance I'll be a bad, bad girl."

"One thing I'll say for you, pup," Spike replied. "You're _not_ stupid."

Marissa hardly had the chance to move before Spike was already at her side. She swung a fist at him, but the large book made her punch awkward, and he easily deflected it. Grabbing her shoulders, he flung her to the side, forcing her back against the wall. She let go of the book to steady herself against the wall, and it was only Spike's quick reflexes that allowed him to catch it before it could fall to the floor. Yellowed pages were already loosened from the ancient binding, and Spike really didn't feel like sitting on the floor and trying to arrange the fallen pages correctly.

Momentarily distracted with making sure that the book was intact, Spike looked up just as Marissa lunged at him. He took a step back, but she grabbed onto the book and tried to pull it away from him. "You can't have it," she yelled at him.

"Sorry, _how_ were you planning on stopping me?" With that, Spike shoved the book into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her and forcing her back. He reached out for her again, meaning to hit her hard enough to daze her, but her hand had gone to her chest and grabbed at something, which she shoved into Spike's hand. He hissed as the crucifix burned his skin.

Seemingly strengthened by his pained sound, Marissa dove for him again, colliding with him and landing on top of him as they hit the floor. Spike screamed as she pressed the small cross into his cheek, and he felt the book being taken away from his hands. "Vampires are easy to stop," she uttered.

She made a startled sound as the heel of Spike's hand collided with her chin, forcing her teeth to clack together. As she backed off, Spike forced himself get up and wiped at his cheek with his sleeve, wincing at the burn. "Then why haven't you managed to stop any yet-?"

The question was cut off when Marissa suddenly kicked him hard in the groin, causing him to double up. Rather than wait around to exchange another round of snide remarks, she grabbed the Originis Chronicles and jumped to her feet, striking him hard in the face with the book. As Spike fell backward, she turned around and sped out the door. Though it didn't take Spike long at all to recover from the hits to the more sensitive areas of his body, by the time he righted himself, she was gone.

"God," he muttered, "I really hate that bitch."

* * *

"How can you be sure it was a possession?" Oz asked.

Doyle looked up from his books. He, Oz, and Jordy were sitting in the basement while Robbie, in his wolf form, was standing in his cage, wishing that he could help. "I can't," Doyle admitted. "But she wasn't acting like herself. It wasn't even a matter of her being drunk."

"Marissa's never been drunk in her life," Robbie offered, his words slightly muddled from speaking around a snout. "Even when she used to drink, she'd stop and drink water before she lost it. Didn't want to end up like her mom, she'd say."

"Yeah, and the throwing-caution-to-the-wind thing was another sign that something wasn't right," Doyle agreed. "The things she said and did... even her body language was different. She said that after her first drink, she decided to 'be me for real,' leading me to think that there was either something in the drink or that maybe her lowered inhibitions made it easier for some kind of spirit to possess her."

"That doesn't make a whole lot of sense," Oz replied. "_Neon_ on a Friday night must be full of drunk people. Why prey on her?"

"Maybe whatever it was has it out for Spike," Jordy brought up. He was sitting on the beanbag chair, his prayer beads still wrapped around one hand as he thumbed them thoughtfully. "Maybe it couldn't get to Spike for some reason, but when it saw him talking to her, it figured it'd get to him through her."

"Then why didn't she go after him when he ran out?" Doyle asked. He was about to ask something else, but they all quieted down when the backdoor opened and Spike bustled down the steps.

Getting a look at everyone gazing at him, he raised his eyebrows and murmured, "I just love feeling like a bloody museum exhibit after a thoroughly disappointing night." It looked as though Oz was going to ask him something, but he paid him no mind and turned to Doyle. "So Irish, how'd the date go? From your early return, I'm guessing that you didn't manage to put a leash around the bitch. Also, since she jumped me, that's another clue that you didn't fare too well."

"She what?" Doyle asked, jumping up. "Where?"

"At the library," Spike answered, sitting himself down on the sofa. "After a stray werewolf shook me off its trail, I decided to see if I could get my hands on the Originis Chronicles. She beat me to it."

"Marissa was after the Originis Chronicles?" Oz asked. "But... why?"

"At first, just to see if she could actually get it," Spike replied. "It was the first little step down the road of being bad. But as she leafed through it, I'm guessing she stumbled across some information that she doesn't want anybody else knowing."

"Maybe it's the work of the First," Robbie realized. "Can the First possess people? Or maybe one of its minions came after her and used her to get to the book. Now that they have it, they'll probably kill her!"

"What the hell are you going on about?" Spike asked, raising an eyebrow. "Where did you get the stupid idea that she was possessed?" Simultaneously, Robbie, Oz, and Jordy all pointed at Doyle. Spike turned to the half-demon, shaking his head in disbelief. "You stupid _git_."

"Well, what other explanation is there?" Doyle huffed.

"The most obvious one that a lowlife like you can possibly come up with," Spike told him. "If you saw her long enough to know that something was off, then you should have guessed it. Her soul's gone."

There was silence in the room as everyone let this sink in. Finally, Robbie breathed, "Her soul? How can a human be alive without a soul?"

"Well, I managed it quite well for most of my unnatural life," Spike said. "A telly without an antenna or cable box can still work, but all it shows is static. It's the same way with humans. They can still breathe and feel, but they're hollow. It's gradual at first: they get moody, restless, start relying on instinct. But if you leave it be long enough, they become full-fledged killers. Worse than animals, they've still got human brains and desires, but nothing to keep 'em from doing whatever they want."

"Like vampires," Jordy concluded. "Soulless ones, anyway."

"Exactly," Spike responded.

"So how did she get like that?" Oz asked.

"More importantly," Robbie threw in, "how do we get her back?"

"The drink," Doyle realized. Seeing Spike look at him, he told him, "She had a stain on her shirt, and she told Jordy and me that it was from your drink. Half of it she spilled, the other half she drank. After that was when she decided to 'let go.' I'm guessing _you_ didn't put anything in your own drink."

"Damned right, I didn't," Spike remarked.

"Then did something happen?" Doyle persisted. "Someone try to slip you a mickey?"

"That's absurd," Spike proclaimed, but quieted down when he thought about it. He had entered _Neon_. Bought a drink. Went to sit down. "Oh _damn it_," he nearly yelled. "Bloody irritating, stupid, evil, disgusting _cow_!"

"Something tells me he just remembered something," Jordy remarked dryly.

"There was a vamp there," Spike explained. "Bumped into me. Now that I think about it, she was saying things that'd keep my attention on her. Either she or some crony of hers must've messed with my drink when I wasn't looking."

"So then this has nothing to do with Marissa," Robbie realized. "Somebody slipped you some kind of potion that would make you lose your soul. But... why?"

"I don't know," Spike remarked. "Maybe the First _is_ behind it. Maybe it thinks that without a soul, I'd be evil again and will join its ranks in the next apocalypse. Of course, I would've thought that the First would be smarter than that, since I wasn't strictly evil even before I got my soul back."

"That's a matter of opinion," Oz stated.

"Shut your trap," Spike shot back.

"This wasn't the First," Doyle declared. He was looking down, though not really looking at anything. Finally turning his eyes towards the others, he explained, "There's no magic potion that can just make someone lose their soul. It'd have to be a spell or a curse, and a pretty powerful one at that. But paranormal science has grown as a field in recent years, and I know this low-life, drug-dealing, son of a you-know-what that's made a name for himself in the demon world. Most of his pills and shots are used for recreation, meaning that the demons get to kick back and laugh while some poor human somehow gets his life torn apart after being infected."

"Jay-man," Spike murmured. "And here I thought he was just a myth."

"No myth," Doyle replied. "And if you've been killing as many naughty types as you've been claiming, I'm guessing you're pretty high on the list of people he doesn't like. Probably ganked a good deal of his clientele. If this female vamp you bumped into had a reason to discredit you, Jay-man would be all too happy to give her a hit to pass along and watch you burn."

"Demonic drug-dealers?" Jordy asked. "You're saying Marissa Harris molested me and stole a rare book out of her own workplace because she's the victim of demonic drug-dealers? Wow, because my life just wasn't weird enough."

"All right, so we track down this Jay-man," Oz concluded. "Find out if he sold anything that could have done that to Marissa, and see if we can _coerce_ him to give us some antidote."

"Lot of good that'd do," Doyle said. "Can't give her an antidote when we don't even know where she is. And for all we know, the Originis Chronicles may be the only place that tells how to get a human soul back."

"I don't think so," Oz told him. "Willow got Angel's soul back for him once. It's possible, but involves some heavy magic. What I'm more concerned about is Marissa destroying the Chronicles before we can look at it, or her doing something that she'll regret once she gets her soul back."

"Then let's stop talking," Spike remarked. "Doyle, do you have a good idea of Jay-man's haunts?" When Doyle nodded and said he thought he could find him before the night was through if they searched quickly enough, Spike continued, "Doyle and I will go after Jay-man, see if we can't figure out not just how to bring the pup back but also who's got it in for little old me. Jordy and Oz, you go after Marissa."

"Jordy's not going anywhere," Oz proclaimed.

"Oz-" Jordy tried to argue.

"Are you nuts?" Oz asked him. "You nearly turned tonight after coming across Marissa like that. I'm not going to risk it happening again."

From his cage, Robbie brought up, "Hey, can I go?" The four men turned to look at the humanoid wolf. "We've pretty much decided that I'm always in control of myself except for the second night of the full moon. I should be safe. Besides, I know Marissa's scent. If Oz is there to keep me in check in case something goes wrong, we're likely to track her down and bring her back even before you can locate this dealer."

After considering it, Spike shrugged and looked at Oz. "Hercules has a point. Think he's up to it?"

* * *

Roderick was awoken by the sound of someone pounding on his door.

After rolling off the sofa, he trudged across the not-at-all considerable expanse of his studio apartment. He didn't exactly have a wide array of callers, and so he sincerely hoped that he hadn't been woken up by a Jehovah's Witness. Then again, he remembered that it was late on a Friday night, so the chances of getting a Bible thumper at this hour were thankfully slim.

Wrenching the door open, it took him a long time before he recognized the smirking girl on the other side of his threshold. Soon enough, however, he realized who he was staring at and widened his eyes as he tried to throw the door shut.

"That's very rude," Marissa chastised him, catching the door and shoving it against him. He let out a small cry and staggered back a few steps as she entered his domain. "For crap's sake, Rod, I expected more from you. After all, you pulled Spike's past self into the present, brought back his sire, made his sire do really unspeakable things to me, and led me by the hand into a near-homicidal mania. And now you can't even say hello to an old friend?"

Moving behind the sofa and keeping it between them, he grabbed for the closest thing and came up with a battered leather wallet. "I'm w-warning you," he tried to say firmly. "A-a-another s-step, and I'll use e-every charm in here on you."

"Rod, baby," she cooed, approaching the sofa and kneeling on it. Leaning over the back of the couch and arching towards him, she remarked, "Don't you remember? You _already_ used a charm against me. Or some kind of abracadabra type magic. Though, I think we both know that I wasn't the intended target."

"The drug," he murmured, gaping at her. "I _thought_ I saw you take Spike's drink."

"And I _thought_ I saw you sitting with some cheap floozy at _Neon_," she replied. "Funny thing, though; by the time I gathered myself up, you had split. She was still around, though. Had myself a little run-in with some pals, and then I gave them the slip and found your partner in crime trying to grab herself a late-night snack. Gosh, these vamps just don't expect people to go around with holy water and wooden stakes in their purses, do they?"

"Let me g-guess," Roderick ventured. "Being soulless, you had no qualms t-t-torturing her un-until she told you my wh-whereabouts, then you mercilessly killed her, t-tracked me down, and expect to do s-s-something s-similar to me."

"Wow, you're good at this!" Marissa exclaimed. "Except, no on that last bit. See, you learn the most interesting things when you're hanging around at the library on a Friday night." At this, she reached into the messenger bag she was wearing and withdrew what looked like a large book. Roderick looked at it quizzically, wondering what sort of medieval torture techniques she had stumbled across on her academic journey.

"This here's something called the Originis Chronicles," she explained, flipping through it. "It's basically a recipe for how to create your own universe, complete with laws and spells and lots of other neat junk. Including-" With a bit of effort, she turned the book around to show Roderick a particular passage containing an illustration of a horned demon. Even before she continued, he recognized the demon as his former boss. "-a bargaining ritual for a big-league demon called D'Hoffryn."

A long period of silence followed. With a small smile, Marissa asked, "You don't follow me, do you?"

"I w-wouldn't follow you if y-y-you were the last r-rem-remotely female thing on Earth."

"Cute," she shot back with a scowl. Sitting herself down on the sofa and keeping a cautious eye on Roderick, she went on, "You told me that you were going to seek your immortality by proving yourself to D'Hoffryn. Doyle told me that vengeance demons are given their power through a demonic higher-up. Putting two and two together is a specialty of mine."

"S-so what?" Roderick snapped. "Y-y-you plan on b-bargaining with D'Hoffryn? Came here t-to gloat while he turns you into a v-ven-vengeance demon? It's stupid to p-play around with th-that sort of thing and test the t-temper of a-"

"Wow, you haven't been paying attention at all, have you?" Marissa asked, glaring at him icily. "I hate demons. _Hate_. Why would I want to become one?" When Roderick didn't answer, Marissa turned her attention back to the book. "I was looking through this to see if I could figure out what had happened to me. I lost my soul, that much is obvious, but nothing in here talks about drinking a potion that can do that. And I don't think there was any chanting, blood sacrifices, or anything else described in these pages going on. So I came here to find out what you did to me." Looking up at him dispassionately, she added, "And maybe we can make some kind of deal."

"Wh-what kind of-?"

"Just tell me what you did."

Roderick gazed at her suspiciously, though he couldn't deny that he was intrigued. What sort of bargain would a girl like Marissa Harris have in mind that would involve him and D'Hoffryn? And, more importantly, was this a trap?

Regardless, as the effects of the drug would probably wear off within another few hours, he saw no harm in explaining it to her. He told her about the drug he had acquired from Jay-man, and how he had slipped it into Spike's drink with the intention of making him temporarily lose his soul. After the vampire came back to his senses and took in the havoc he had caused, it would both prove to be a psychological strain and would serve to get his allies to lose faith in him.

He was quite pleased with his own cunning, which made it all the more disheartening when she scoffed, "You idiot." Rolling her eyes, Marissa murmured, "Spike regained his soul of his own free will. Meaning that before he even _had_ a soul, he was already fairly reformed. Taking his soul away would probably confuse him more than damage him."

Roderick looked down. As much as he hated to admit it, she had a point. Spike's soul wasn't the embodiment of good; it was simply the proof he had needed to show that he _was_ good. Whichever way he looked at it, his endeavors had been wasted.

Even as he was silently cursing his own shortsightedness, Marissa asked, "Then it's like I thought? My soullessness isn't permanent?"

Looking up at her, Roderick was surprised to see that she seemed somewhat disappointed by this. "Y-you have about another f-four hours. M-maybe less." He continued to gaze at her, wondering if he could somehow turn her feelings to his advantage.

"Then that's where the bargain comes in," she shocked him by saying. With a slight smirk, she told him, "Souls are awfully cumbersome. And I'm none too anxious to be encumbered again." She placed a hand solemnly on the Chronicles, proclaiming, "We summon D'Hoffryn. You give him a human soul in exchange for the return of your powers. You go ahead and be all demonic again. I go ahead and have fun for the rest of my natural life. Very Faustian, no?"

Roderick could do little else but gape at her for a long time. While he had to admit that he was just as anxious to shed his humanity as she was eager to be rid of her soul, it still came as something of a surprise. For a human who so loathed anything remotely inhuman to want to make a Faust-like bargain... it just boggled the mind. It only made him all the more certain that humans really were an idiotic bunch.

"Y-you _do_ realize," he felt the need to tell her, "that once I get my p-p-powers back, you and your stupid f-friends will be the f-first ones to die?"

He thought that saying this to her would wipe the cocky expression from her face. He thought it would make her rethink her proposition long enough for him to make an attempt to grab the book and deliver a decent blow against her.

A deep, cold gloom settled over him when she smiled and answered, "What makes you think I don't have that eventuality covered?" Leaning back against the arm in the sofa and continuing to gaze haughtily up at him, she told him, "We play nice for just long enough to get this done. Once my soul's safely in D'Hoffryn's hands to do with it as he will and you've got your special little powers back, we can go ahead and be like Spy vs. Spy, for all I care. So, what do you say?"

Knowing that he would have to time everything just right, Roderick quickly replied, "Deal."

* * *

"I still can't believe she kicked your ass," Doyle laughed.

Getting quite tired of explaining it over and over, Spike repeated, "She _didn't_ 'kick my ass,' okay? Blindsided me with a bloody cross, hit me where it hurts, knocked me over, and ran off before I could retaliate."

"Like I said," Doyle told him, "kicked your ass."

Doyle stopped in his tracks when Spike spun around, his vamp-face having emerged as he grabbed the man by the collar of his jacket. They were walking along a dark street in a seedy neighborhood, and the only people within sight didn't seem like they'd be all too eager to break up the fight.

"Just because I'm not evil doesn't mean I'm good," Spike warned him with a snarl. "Chaos, remember? Can't predict when I might snap, or _what_ I'll snap while I'm at it. And your use is wearing thin, what with your reception to the soddin' Powers That Don't Do a Damned Thing being all wonky." Shoving Doyle away, his face reverted to normal, but that didn't lighten the glower he cast upon the half-demon. "If this place doesn't turn out to be our quarry's little hidey-hole, I'm going to break your scrawny little neck, you get me?"

Adjusting the lining of his jacket and absently reaching out to touch his throat, Doyle nodded before quietly remarking, "Yeah. Yeah, of course." As they continued walking, he muttered, "Good luck breaking my neck when I'm in my demon form."

"Who said I'll give you time to change?" Spike asked.

"You're awfully cranky," Doyle observed. "I would've thought that years of tussling with Slayers would've made you used to getting beat down by a girl. True, Marissa's human, but not having a soul's gotta make her fight without inhibitions, am I right?"

"As much as it seems to tickle your funny bone," Spike retorted, "my encounter with your rogue date isn't what's weighing on my mind. We gotta get her stupid soul back from some stupid pusher, then figure out who it was that was trying to spike my stupid drink. All of this might or might not have anything to do with, I don't know, the _apocalypse_. You know, that big, world-shattering thing that might be crashing down on us at any moment? That thing that not only involves the First Evil, but quite possibly the psychotic ex-girlfriend sire from Hell?"

"Oh, that," Doyle realized. "You're not buckling under pressure, are you?"

"It's more than pressure," Spike mumbled. Grabbing in his pocket for a cigarette, he didn't really feel like relating any of this to _Doyle_, of all people. Still, he didn't really have a large array of choices if he ever wanted to sit and have a heart-to-unbeating-heart. None of the people he's met up with here in Woodridge could rightfully be called his friends, but they really _were_ all he had.

"I'm not a leader," the vampire finally bemoaned after a puff of his cigarette. "I've got balls of steel and the occasional bright idea, but I've always been somebody else's lieutenant. Even in my glory days, everything I did was to live up to Angelus or to keep Dru happy. I don't mind doing the legwork or the creative thinking or even working on my own, but being the go-to guy for a noble cause? Not my forte. And now that this is the closest I've ever come to leading a mishmash group of saviors, what have I actually accomplished? A whole lot of nothing. Sitting around, waiting for people to bring me books or trying to interrogate ghosts that can't be intimidated. And then there's this stupid little pup who constantly gets herself abducted, violated, tortured, and then gets her soul ripped out of her."

"Are you actually blaming yourself for what happened to Marissa?" Doyle asked, surprised.

"Oh, hell no, don't be foolish," Spike replied. "Leaving this craphole town was the smartest thing she'd ever done, and then she had to go and prove that she really _was_ a Harris by coming back. It's her own damned fault, even if I'm more than likely to end up getting blamed and punished for it, in her mind."

Pausing long enough to take another drag, he continued, "Point is, when I was up having a chat with that Higher Being, she told me that everything I need is going to come to me, and I just gotta recognize it when I see it. And as cryptic as that was, I can't deny that that dumb bint keeps crossing paths with me one way or the other. So now I have to wonder: do I _need_ her?"

"No." Shocked by the speedy reply, Spike shot Doyle a quizzical glance. Shaking his head, Doyle explained, "She's just a teenaged girl-"

"Just like the Slayer and her friends were, once upon a time."

"She doesn't have any special skills," Doyle protested.

"Neither did Cordelia."

"She's not exceptionally smart or vamp-friendly."

"Just like Xander."

"Spike," he finally brought up, "she's a normal human being. No magic, no visions, no super strength, and she isn't even tolerant of non-humans as a whole. Not to mention that I'm pretty sure all of the recent events are probably going to see to it that she's buckets of crazy at the end of everything, if she ends up alive. I don't know how the Powers work, I don't know what they want or what they see, but I'm almost positive that Marissa is just the hapless victim."

"The hapless victim who always manages to end up side-by-side with the heroes," Spike clarified. "Who doesn't look like much, but surprises you every so often. A bit like her kin, eh? Her kin who's now sitting at the Slayer's right hand?"

Though he said nothing else on the matter, Doyle continued to shake his head. Sure, Marissa was older than Buffy had been back when Doyle first met her, and he had already seen the Slayer as an accomplished warrior by then. And fine, so whether she _did_ "kick Spike's ass" or happened to favor a speedy retreat, she _had_ managed to get around the strong vampire fairly unscathed. And yes, it did seem a little odd that she always crossed paths with either Spike or one of Spike's allies. But he didn't want her to get involved.

In a way, Doyle saw Marissa as another Cordelia. He wasn't in love with her, and she wasn't as beautiful or charismatic or alluring as the former Sunnydale cheerleader. But like Cordelia had been way back in the day, Marissa was simply a normal girl who was trying to live her own life. And Cordelia had gotten too caught up in the fight, both because of her loyalty to the cause and because Doyle had forced his visions on her before he died. Doyle didn't want another Cordelia. He didn't want another innocent person getting hurt so badly that the Powers decide to reward her after years of torture resulted in her untimely death. Leave Marissa to the fate of the masses. Whatever that fate was, it was an easier road than the ones the heroes needed to travel.

Fighting back the urge to continue telling Spike that he was wrong about Marissa, Doyle led him up towards a bar and opened the door. Stepping in, he waited for Spike to stand besides him before he quietly declared, "Demon pub."

Looking at the patrons, Spike replied, "Doesn't look like it."

"Not from out here, no," Doyle told him, trying not to notice the various gazes they had drawn as they walked towards the bar. "We might be at the very outskirts of Woodridge, but they've still got to keep up appearances. The main room's for humans and for people like me; the ones that can pass."

"And Jay-man?"

"That's what they've got backrooms for."

"Evenin', Glenn," the overweight bartender greeted as Doyle sat down at a stool. He gave Spike a cautious glance before returning his gaze to the half-demon. "Your usual?"

"Make it two, Mac," Doyle replied as Spike sat besides him. "One for my buddy."

After the bartender turned away, Spike asked Doyle, "Glenn?"

"Can't go around using my real moniker," Doyle whispered with an absent smirk. "That's how I got myself resurrected to begin with. If I should find myself on the wrong side of a burial ground again, I don't want any of these scuzzbuckets knowing my true name and bringing me back for a third go."

As Mac placed two bottles of Heineken on the counter before them, Doyle leaned in and told him, "Mac, got a question."

"You and everybody else in this dive," Mac replied. "Trouble with you is, you're so stupid you think that everyone's hearing is as bad as yours. What's a crumb like you looking for Jay-man for?" Lowering his voice, he nudged his head towards Spike and added, "And while we're on the subject, why'd you bring _this_ bastard in here?"

"Hey!" Spike cried.

"Sorry, did I offend your sensibilities?" Mac asked sarcastically. "I tend to get a little testy when I'm looking into the face of the guy who's been killing off a good deal of my customers ever since he blew into town."

"Oh," Spike remarked, surprised. "I guess I've made a name for myself."

"Yeah, and it's that name that's gonna get you run out of here if you set a single fang out of line," Mac asserted. "I'm not looking for trouble-"

"Whoa, whoa, Mac," Doyle interrupted, "you've got us pegged all wrong. In all the long weeks that you've known me, have _I_ ever caused trouble? ...Trouble that couldn't be cleaned up soon enough, I mean? We've got no problem with Jay-man. He's a vendor, we're potential buyers. All nice and legal-like, or as close to it as you can expect."

Mac looked at Doyle for a long time before turning to gaze at Spike. At length, Spike let out an irritated sigh and rolled his eyes as he said, "I'm just here to talk. I've got enough things on my mind without worrying about the entire local demon community coming after me as I sleep."

After a while, Mac's eyes turned to look somewhere behind Spike. Peering behind him, Spike saw that he was looking towards a door that claimed to be the entrance to the men's restroom, an "Out of Order" sign hanging from the doorknob. Sitting at a small table besides the door was a pair of the most conspicuous-looking bouncers Spike had seen in a long time.

He made a move to get up, but stopped and turned back when Mac grabbed his arm. Leaning in towards him, the bartender solemnly stated, "You better just be here to talk, vampire. Because we've got demons in here who hate you enough to make sure you'll do nothing _but_ sleep for the rest of eternity."

Narrowing his eyes at Mac, Spike grabbed the bartender's chubby wrist and discreetly squeezed it hard enough that the demon would need to dunk his hand in an ice bucket for the rest of his shift. "You waste my time," Spike told him, "and eternity's gonna end a lot quicker than you think, tubby."

Shoving the man's hand away from him, Spike swiped his beer bottle and motioned for Doyle to follow after him. As the pair of them approached the door Mac had pointed out, the bouncers stood and glared at them guardedly. Stepping in front of Spike, Doyle held up a wad of currency and remarked, "We're here on business, all right?"

After several exchanges of eye contact, the two monoliths sat down and Spike and Doyle walked through the door. In the dim back room hung the heavy stench of incense and through the haze they were able to see a trio of demons sitting on a couch in the rear. "Ahh, it's just like my college days," Doyle commented.

"Well, well, well," came a voice from the smoke. Spike was pleased to hear that it was laced with a bit of trepidation as it remarked, "It's Spike, isn't it? I've heard a lot about you, brother."

"Same here," Spike replied. "Though, I think if I'm as famous among the scumbags of the world as _you_ are, you'd have heard enough to know that you should be soiling your trousers, mate."

As their vision adjusted, they saw two horned demons rise, leaving behind a tall, dark-skinned, dreadlocked demon seated on the couch. Spike smirked as the two lackeys approached him, the classic henchmen to some two-bit underworld bigwig. "Now, boys, I'm just here to talk."

"Still got a soul," one of the stoolies commented.

"Not for long," proclaimed the other.

Apparently ignoring Doyle altogether, both of them headed straight for Spike, causing the vampire to once again roll his eyes. As the one on the left reached out for him, Spike smashed his beer bottle against his hand, using the jagged remains to puncture through the other one's scaly torso. Both of their cries were cut short when he grabbed each of their throats and rammed them back against a wall.

"Of course," Spike remarked, "I forgot to mention that I prefer communicating in Morse code." Taking turns bashing each of their heads against the wall with each word, he said, "Dot, dot, dot, dot-" Knocking both of their heads together, he finished, "_Dash_!"

Jay-man leapt to his feet and tried to go for a side door, but he was intercepted by Doyle, who held his beer bottle in front of him like a talisman. "I _really_ don't feel like wasting a perfectly good beer on you," Doyle commented. Reaching behind him, he added, "Luckily, I've got this gun back here...."

"You don't know what you're getting yourselves into," Jay-man insisted.

"That's something that can be said for _you_," Spike corrected, leaving the unconscious lackeys to fall on the floor as he approached Jay-man. "I've got this niggling feeling that the lot of you were surprised to see that I've still got a soul. Care to relate to me who it was that would make you think the opposite?"

The door through which they had entered opened, and the two mammoth-sized bouncers appeared. Doyle nearly laughed at the sight of the two of them trying to squeeze in the doorway at the same time, but instead used the moment to shift into his demonic form. Seeing the red eyes, green skin, and blue spikes appear over the once-complacent face in front of them, one of the bouncers gasped, "What the-?!"

For all their apparent muscle, it didn't seem like either of them had enough faith in their own prowess to face up to something that looked as vicious as a Brachen demon, especially when said demon was holding a gun. Watching them scramble away, Doyle grinned and shook off his inhuman appearance as he lowly remarked, "Well, not my style, but it works. Thanks, Dad."

As Doyle moved to close and bar the door, Spike grabbed Jay-man by the back of his neck in a strong enough grip to prove that he could crush it beneath his grasp, if he so wanted. "Now that the distractions are out of the way," he told the shaking demon, "how about you answer my question?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Jay-man declared.

After a moment of looking about, Spike dragged Jay-man over towards a small table, brushed a space clear of various test tubes and syringes, and slammed Jay-man's face down against it. Doyle flinched at the sound of the demon screaming, wondering if one of its small black horns had broken off.

"Shall we try that again?" Spike asked, forcing Jay-man up.

Between the sniveling and the shuddering touches to his own face, Jay-man eventually choked out, "Ah... what was the question?"

Hearing a commotion on the other side of the door, Doyle and Spike exchanged furtive glances before Spike smashed Jay-man's face against the tabletop again. "You sold a drug. Tried to get me to lose my soul. Who did you sell it do?"

His voice muffled from the table, Jay-man uttered, "I don't know! Believe me, I don't know!"

Getting impatient, Spike shifted his grip so that Jay-man's left cheek was forced against the table, leaving the demon's right eye gaping up at him. Spike arbitrarily grabbed one of the nearby syringes and, after assessing the dark green liquid within, held it within inches of Jay-man's eye.

At the sight of the needle so close to him, Jay-man screamed and unsuccessfully tried to buck Spike off, loudly protesting, "I don't know! I swear to God, man, I don't have a clue! Never saw him before! He was a human!"

"A human?" Doyle queried.

"I don't believe you," Spike growled, pressing down harder on Jay-man's head.

"It's true!" Jay-man cried. "He was old, but definitely human. But he didn't look old, you know what I mean? Like he wasn't always human. But I don't know, man! I don't ask questions! He wanted the product, he told me what it was for, and I gave him a good deal! That's all!"

Wasn't always human. Spike and Doyle once again exchanged glances. Sadrahd. Harmony's former vengeance demon boyfriend. Well, that wasn't as bad as it could have been. Robbie and Oz already knew his scent, so tracking him down and putting him out of his misery wouldn't be too difficult.

"Can you reverse it?" Doyle asked, walking towards the table and setting his beer down.

"He's still got his soul," Jay-man noticed. "Why do you need to reverse it?"

Grabbing the demon's deadlocks and giving him another swift bang against the table, Spike told him, "You said you don't ask questions. Now is a bad time to start. We need an antidote, or you're gonna get a little prick with this very nasty-looking needle."

"There _is_ no antidote," Jay-man told him quickly. "It wears off on its own."

"In how long?" Spike demanded.

Biting back the pain, Jay-man asked, "Who drank it?" Feeling Spike getting ready to hit him again, he quickly added, "I need to know to give you a decent answer! Was it a human? A man? A chick? Tall? Short? Fat? What?"

"A girl," Spike acquiesced. "A human girl. Teenager. About five-and-a-half feet tall. Average-sized, maybe a little chunky."

"Did she drink it straight, or was it mixed with something?"

"Mixed with whiskey," Spike replied

"A full glass?"

"No," Doyle responded. "Only about half of it."

With a groan, Jay-man mumbled, "Half a dose of product, gone to waste."

"I know a bloke who wears a patch," Spike told him, bringing the needle a bit closer to his eye. "Want me to get you in touch with him so the two of you can form a club?"

"It was a weak dose," Jay-man quickly answered. "It wasn't supposed to last more than six hours. She drank half; with her body type and average human metabolism, should be about three hours. Maybe less if she's been scuffling or screwing, or doing anything else physical."

"Three hours?" Spike asked. As Jay-man nodded, he looked to Doyle. "How long ago did she drink it?"

After a moment's thought, Doyle replied, "Not sure. Just after you left _Neon_ to deal with the werewolf, so it's been at least two hours."

"It's been more than two hours, then," Spike mused. To Jay-man, he barked, "Are there any side effects? Anything going to be off with her once she comes back into herself?"

"There's always side effects," came the response. Spike didn't like the veiled laughter hidden in the words. "With something like this, man, with something that can lock the human away for a little while, the main thing you've gotta worry about is that she doesn't do anything she'll regret once the hamster's back in the cage. Because I think you know what that's like."

"A little slice of Hell," Spike muttered. After a moment, something outside collided with the door, making Doyle tense up with the gun. Spike had never seen Doyle in a full-on fight, but he knew well enough that the sheer force of numbers could often cancel out any demonic abilities. "Alternative exits?" Spike asked Jay-man.

Pointing as best as he could given his awkward angle, Jay-man answered, "The side door. Leads to a back alley." He groaned as Spike forced him up, dragging him backwards towards the door in question.

Doyle followed and cautiously opened the door, confirming Jay-man's words. Shoving the drug dealer onto the floor, Spike said, "Very nice, Jay-man. You did well, behaving just like the sniveling, cowardly little toad I always knew your ilk to be. I should be in a good mood, but somehow, I'm just not."

As though realizing something, he commented, "Oh, I know why. I haven't killed anything since yesterday." Ignoring Jay-man's protestations, Spike held his hand out for Doyle's gun. Stony-faced, Doyle handed it over.

As the gunshots rang out into the room, the main door burst open and the bar patrons flooded in, screaming out against the bloodshed. Rather than shoot them, Spike fired a few empty shots in front of them to keep them at bay before slamming the door shut. Together, he and Doyle scaled a nearby fire escape and ran across a few rooftops before eventually coming to a stop ten blocks north of the bar.

"Well," Doyle huffed, leaning his hands on his thighs as he tried to catch his breath, "good talk."

* * *

Standing on the rooftop of Roderick's apartment building, he and Marissa stared one another down.

They had relocated to the top of the building because the bargaining ritual had required an outdoor venue, and it seemed like the most private place they could easily get to. Roderick would have preferred the cemetery, but it appeared as though Marissa was anxious to get the spell over and done with.

However, now that it came time to get a blood sample from each of them, both found that they were too wary of the other to get it done. They stood within the circle of D'Hoffryn's symbol that Roderick had drawn on the floor, but neither dared to use the knife in their hands. Roderick was certain that, as soon as he cut his palm open and instinctively flinched from the pain, Marissa would use her knife against him. Marissa was just as concerned.

"So are we going to stand here all night?" Marissa finally asked.

"Y-y-_you're_ the sacrifice," Roderick told her.

"My _soul_'s the sacrifice," Marissa shot back. "And technically, it's the 'bargaining chip.' My blood just binds my concession to the contract. Since you're the one who's supposed to be summoning D'Hoffryn, it's really _your_ blood that's most necessary."

"Fantastic," Roderick sneered. "S-s-so you know how to r-read."

"This is stupid," Marissa finally groaned, lowering her knife and stepping backwards out of the circle. "How about you cut yourself, then back away long enough for me to do the same, and then we don't have to worry about whether one of us is going to gank the other when it seems convenient?"

Roderick thought over his options. She seemed to genuinely believe that her suggestion was an intelligent one. Apparently, she hadn't read the conditions of the bargaining ritual as carefully as she thought she had.

Trying not to smirk, he sliced his blade across his palm and allowed himself to bleed over the black icon he had drawn with charcoal. "Th-there," he said, hoping he didn't sound as smug as he felt as he took a step back. "Your turn."

Seemingly grateful that things were finally going somewhere, Marissa stepped into the circle and grimaced as she cut her hand. As the drops of blood rolled off her palm, Roderick suddenly brought up, "Oh, I f-forgot. I glanced at the d-directions when we were s-setting up. Your b-b-blood doesn't _figuratively_ bind you to the contract."

Marissa gaped up at him, but found that she couldn't say anything. As soon as her blood splattered on the floor, she felt a strange emptiness wash over her, as though hollowing her out. Being soulless, she hadn't even known that there was anything _left_ to hollow out, but it was a profound emptiness that swallowed her as Roderick sidled up towards her and remarked, "I-it's quite l-_literal_, you see."

As though he found the whole thing to be rather amusing, he blew a sharp breath towards her, watching as she rigidly fell over backwards. "Typically, the human soul is sacrificed by w-way of the human's d-death," he explained laughingly. "The human is - for all intents and p-purposes - dead throughout the entire r-ritual. Should I have m-m-mentioned that earlier?"

Seeing her throat uselessly working in a futile effort to scream and curse at him, Roderick couldn't keep back his gaiety and laughed directly down at her. Did the stupid girl actually think that she could make a bargain with the likes of D'Hoffryn? She had no power or talents; the only one of the two of them that D'Hoffryn would listen to would be his former follower. And since her soul was already cast from her body, she'd become nothing more than a conscious corpse until Roderick once again became Sadrahd and could thus exact a bit of his own vengeance upon her.

Turning back towards the open book he had laid upon the floor, he taunted, "D-don't worry. I'll m-m-make sure Xander receives your body. I've already got all the b-boxes I plan to ship it out in. I've b-been waiting for this for a l-_long_ time."

Marissa found that she couldn't even work her throat enough to swallow, nor could she force herself to blink. Her heart was still pounding in her chest, but she was horrified to discover that Roderick had indeed been right; it was like retaining sentience even after rigor mortis set in. She was as helpless as a person experiencing a night terror, and it wasn't long into Roderick's chanting that she came to a startling realization: she was no longer cold.

_My soul_, she realized, panicking even more. _It's coming back in, just to be kicked back out. Great, nice timing, dumbass. You couldn't show up _before_ I stabbed myself and bound myself to that little gnome?_

After a few moments of chanting, Roderick thought he heard something echo in the night air. He paused for the briefest of moments, trying to decipher what it was. Then it sounded again. A howl. His eyes widening, Roderick looked up into the sky and realized for the first time that the moon was full.

As much as he wanted revenge on Robbie Wilson, he knew he wasn't prepared to take him on. He needed to summon D'Hoffryn as quickly as possible, regain his powers, and then he could properly deal with the werewolf. Or were_wolves_. There were at least two of them in town that he knew of, and he was standing in the open air besides freshly-spilled blood. He needed his powers back _now_.

Unfortunately, the faster Roderick attempted to speak, the more pronounced his stutter became. It didn't take long for his beckoning to D'Hoffryn to become nothing but jumbled garbling, and a glance at Marissa's twitching arms told him that the ritual was failing. D'Hoffryn wouldn't come. And the paralysis would wear off soon. And the howling was getting closer.

If he couldn't return to his former glory, Roderick was determined not to let the night be a total loss. He dropped the aging book to the floor and, mindless of the loose pages that scattered about the rooftop, he grabbed for his knife. "Y-You can't say I'm n-not opportunistic," he growled under his breath.

Stepping over the useless markings he had so carefully sketched, Roderick approached Marissa and stooped down besides her. Grabbing a handful of the shuddering girl's hair, he pulled her head upwards to reveal her throat. Too many opportunities had appeared this night for him to let them _all_ fade away.

Just as he was about to strike, Roderick heard the door leading back into the building crash open. Fearing the worst, he whirled around and quickly decided that the girl would now have to be used as a way to bargain for his life. However, Roderick was relieved to see that the person who now arrived on the rooftop was only Oz. In his human form, no less.

"W-well," Roderick remarked chidingly. "C-Come to play the knight in sh-shining armor?"

Breathing hard from running, Oz shook his head. "No. I'm just playing the part of the sidekick tonight. Since I look human, I could walk through the front door. The hero, though, needed an _alternative_ entrance."

At first, Roderick didn't comprehend what Oz meant. It wasn't until he heard the sound of a heavy thud behind him that he understood. Turning, he came face-to-face with the wolf version of Robbie as he finished climbing onto the roof, and he didn't look all too pleased to see the way Roderick was handling his former girlfriend. Oz had come in from behind him; Robbie in front of him. He was hedged in.

It was at this point that Roderick knew it'd be pointless to expect either of them to spare his life, and so he made a final effort to have this night mean something. Quickly turning his attention back to Marissa, he slashed out with his knife.

Hardly a moment before the blade would pierce the skin, a clawed hand grabbed his wrist and yanked it away. Looking up, he saw Robbie's light brown eyes glaring at him furiously just before he was forced backwards. Robbie fell upon him, going for his throat, and Roderick marveled over the fact that he was now grappling for his life with a werewolf twice his size.

Oz sidestepped the fighting pair and moved towards Marissa. Crouching besides her, he observed her face and decided that he didn't like her wide-eyed expression or her convulsive movements. For all he knew, she was having some kind of seizure.

His thoughts were interrupted when a loud yell of pain sounded. Looking up, he saw that Roderick had managed to reach for the knife Marissa had dropped and wounded Robbie. Though he was bloodied and battered, the small man managed to throw the werewolf off of him and get up, racing for the door through which Oz had entered moments before.

Not wanting Roderick to get away and knowing that Robbie's healing factor would protect him from any immediate danger, Oz jumped to his feet and raced after the escaping former demon. It wasn't long before he caught up with him in the stairway and jumped for it, successfully tackling Roderick and forcing them to fall onto the first-floor landing.

Roderick squirmed and twisted, and at last he did what all cowards ultimately did. He screamed. Oz squeezed his hands around the other man's throat, initially not caring about the cries. However, when he heard someone open the door to the stairwell, he realized too late what this looked like.

"What the hell?" Oz looked up to see an unfamiliar woman standing at the doorway, looking both terrified and enraged. "Get the hell off of him! What the hell did you do? I'm calling the cops!" As she reached for the cell phone clipped to her waist, Oz knew that the last thing he needed was to get himself arrested.

Glaring down at Roderick, he fiercely whispered, "You'd better hope you never heal," just before punching him soundly across the face. Ignoring the woman's screams, he dashed up the stairs and knew that the only way he'd get out of here without getting ID'd would be to exit the same way Robbie had entered.

Back on the roof, he saw that Robbie had one clawed hand over his left shoulder, which is where a long diagonal slash began, and was staring down at Marissa with some concern. Hearing Oz re-emerge, Robbie turned to him and uttered, "I don't know what to do. If I get too close, my blood... would it...?"

"I've got her," Oz told him, taking a moment to shift into his wolf form before quickly picking the girl up in his arms. "Grab the book and come on. We need to jet before the boys in blue try to throw the book at me for beating up an evil son of a bitch."

Without waiting for an explanation, Robbie did as he was asked and followed Oz as he leapt off the rooftop.

* * *

When Marissa finally became aware of her surroundings, she thought she was still hallucinating.

She was lying in her bed and, sitting at her desk a few feet away, was Spike. He had turned the chair to face her, and he seemed to be reading her copy of _The Complete Works of Shakespeare_. If she hadn't known that his mortal self had been a poet, the incompatible sight would have been a certain sign that she had suffered severe head trauma.

When she slowly sat up, Spike, without looking up from his reading, told her, "Not a word. There's water on the nightstand; drink the entire thing before you attempt to talk." As she opened her mouth to speak, he raised his eyes to look at her sternly. "I think I know a thing or two about how you're feeling right now, so do as I say for once, yeah?"

Though she was highly disturbed by the way she likened his behavior to that of a strict father, Marissa looked to see that there indeed was a glass of water on the nightstand. She reached out with a shaky hand and took it.

Spike watched her as she drank the water, and finally closed the book as she put the empty glass down. "Now," he said carefully, "you're gonna tell me exactly what you did while the real you was taking a holiday, and you're not going to leave out a single detail. Do we understand each other?"

Marissa nodded and, though it was a difficult start, she managed to relate the tale of how she had found D'Hoffryn's summoning spell and decided that she would enlist Roderick's help in order to permanently lose her human soul. Her plan had backfired when a clause in the ritual paralyzed her and made her helpless in front of Roderick, and after that, her memories got hazy before altogether fading away.

Spike said nothing for a while, and Marissa found herself wondering if he was even more disgusted with her hypocrisy than _she_ was. After a few moments, he leaned back in his seat and tiredly said, "We _know _allthat nonsense. The wolves looked through the Originis Chronicles and matched the symbol they saw on the roof with one of the ones in the book. Having been soulless for an indecent amount of time, I figured out what it was you probably wanted. No, what I want to know is whether you offed somebody or sexed someone up."

"What?!" Marissa exclaimed, aghast. "Why would you want to know that?"

"Because if you _killed_ somebody," Spike replied in a surprisingly patient voice, "that can do a lot to that frail psyche of yours, and maybe I can play counselor while the others lick their wounds and try to make some sense of our new occult library. I don't offer that kind of thing often, but something tells me there's a reason you and me keep butting heads, and I know a bit about what it's like to wake up and discover that you were a monster for a while."

As though in afterthought, he shrugged and added with a grin, "And if you went out and got laid, I thought I'd offer congratulations."

"You're a pig."

"A vampire, actually. But decent guess."

Gingerly putting both feet on the floor as she cricked her neck, she asked, "How'd you get in here, anyway? Xander put a de-invite spell on the house."

"Your mum saw me carrying her comatose daughter up the porch," Spike answered. "What did you _think_ she'd say?"

"Great," Marissa muttered. "Another round of questions. Just when she was starting to forget about the whole thing with...."

"With Angelus," Spike brusquely finished. "Or 'He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named,' if that's the sort of game you're playing. At any rate, I just told her you had a bit much to drink and that I'd like to sit up with you. She then offered _me_ a nip, which I didn't turn down, though I did turn down her... other offers." After an almost imperceptible beat, he remarked, "You know, if I gave a damn about you, I'd worry over the kind of environment you grew up in."

"You and me both," she murmured. Meeting his eyes once again, she asked, "So if you don't care, why are you here? I would've thought Doyle would be the one playing nurse."

"While he'd probably look better in a nurse's outfit than me," he responded, "Irish never had to live without his soul. Oz and Hercules were about to take you to a hospital, but one look at you told me that your jabbering wasn't any kind of physical spaz attack. It came from up here." At that, he tapped a fingertip to his head before lowly concluding, "I just reckoned you might want to talk about the experience. I know _I_ did, but there wasn't anybody around to listen. Unless you count the phantoms in my head."

Once again, Spike found himself observing Marissa's face carefully. She never answered his question concerning whether or not she killed anyone tonight, but he didn't think she'd need to. Though her gaze appeared a little hollow and immensely troubled, it didn't seem to be anything but the residual pain from the entire Angelus trauma. He didn't see any signs that she had become a killer, and he found that he was almost disappointed by this. It would have been a nice, twisted way to get her to finally see reason on the whole "soul" business.

"Right then," Spike muttered after a long while of silence. Getting up, he said, "I knew I was going soft, but it must be soft in the head if I actually thought _you'd_ open up to me. I'll just go along and fight some evil things for a while before having Loverboy or Hercules swing by and give you a shoulder to-"

"Wait."

He had been heading towards the door when she called out to him. Mildly surprised by the request, he stopped and turned around. She hadn't moved from the bed, and he noticed with a large degree of irritation that she wasn't looking at him. "For Christ's sake," he snapped. "Make up your bleeding mind, woman. Am I friend or foe? I can't sit about all night waiting for you to have your pathetic moral struggles. I've got a world to save, you know."

"Yeah. I know." Taking a deep breath, it seemed to take Marissa a bit of effort to finally turn her head and look up at him. "And yet you're here. You keep giving me second chances, even though I don't deserve them."

"Soft in the brain, like I said."

"_You_ got a second chance," she told him. "And you definitely didn't deserve it. So while you've got a list of better things to do with your time, and you won't waste the rest of forever waiting around for people to finally decide what's what, you're still willing to admit that people can change."

"Actually," Spike told her, having lost the mood for touching speeches, "a chat with a Higher Being's convinced me that everyone I've met has got some kind of purpose to serve in the upcoming apocalypse, so I didn't see the harm in trying to make sure you worked _for_ me instead of _against_ me, for once."

"Oh," Marissa uttered, surprised both by his frankness and by the prospect of having some kind of responsibility in what she thought of as the impending war against good and evil.

"Still," she continued, looking down, "the point is, I've been going on about how a soul doesn't change anything. How a soul can still be good or bad, and how you wouldn't do anything as a vampire that you wouldn't do as a mortal. And now... I mean, I didn't do anything too outlandish. I won't be able to ever look Jordy in the eye again and I'll be surprised if anyone ever speaks to me again after I almost brought that stupid vengeance demon back to full power.... But now I know that a soul actually does make a difference." With a sigh, she looked up and finished, "I guess what I'm trying to say is-" She stopped.

Spike had disappeared, uncaring of what she was trying to say.

* * *

While the idea of spending the night in the hospital was probably a smart one, Roderick knew that the smarter thing would be to get out of town as quickly as possible.

True, vampires couldn't enter a home unbidden. And true, there was now an entire month until the next full moon. But as his newly-bandaged hand fumbled to unlock his door, he knew that he couldn't depend on his security for much longer.

His meager possessions were in a sack, he had rigged a vehicle that would drive him as far away from Woodridge as possible, and he was going to travel for so long that he might even _forget_ about the thirst for revenge... at least until he was fully healed.

If he had only managed to keep that book! He would have been able to grab any hapless innocent off the street and used them to complete the ritual at his leisure. With his powers back, he was sure he could find _scores_ of people who'd make a vengeful wish against Spike and virtually anyone that associated with him. Roderick was smarter now; he knew there was no time for coy or complex plans. Just let someone wish death upon Spike and anyone he looked on as a friend, and be done with the whole thing.

After making sure he had everything he'd need, Roderick closed the door of his former apartment and ran for the stairwell. He knew he was a coward, but now he was a coward with his head on straight, and that had to count for something. Once he healed up right, he'd steal that book back, complete the ritual, and-

"Poor little jester."

Roderick nearly stumbled on the steps when he heard the unfamiliar voice behind him. Whirling around, he saw a woman standing just a few steps above him, despite the fact that he hadn't heard anyone following after him. He noted her pale skin and dreamy eyes, and he briefly wondered why she seemed so familiar. He knew he had never met her, and yet....

"Keeps running away and doing things he mustn't," she sighed, slowly descending the steps. Roderick carefully backed away, stumbling a few times until he reached the landing. "We didn't mind it at first, precious. We thought it was all rather entertaining. There's good, and evil, and there's the neutral. The Chaos. And you tried so, so hard to be evil."

Finally finding his voice, Roderick asked, "Who are you?"

"But that's the problem, you see," she continued, ignoring Roderick's query as she walked a rather right circle around him. Bringing her lips close to her ear, she whispered in a singsong voice, "You kept failing."

Roderick tried and failed to keep a shiver from trailing his spine. In a normal voice, she continued, "Tried bringing Daddy back and brought him back all wrong. And even when sweet William could have finished things, he was still stopped. And then you started getting creative, grasping at straws and hoping to use them as swords in your epic battle. But all you did was distract the prince when he should have been getting deeper and closer to us. You've gotten in our way, jester. And you're no longer funny."

A strangled cry left Roderick's lips as she grabbed him by the throat and slammed him hard into the wall. He had to blink a few times to be sure, but he soon realized that he wasn't just seeing things. Her pretty face had suddenly changed into something vicious, predatory. Vampiric.

"You're so old," she mentioned as she brushed her free hand over his terrified face. "One would think you were smarter than this. Or stronger. But I suppose that's a sign that your kind of evil is simply a thing of the past. We're the new trend, my sweet." As though she had just made a joke, she glanced down at his throat as her thumb went over his rapid pulse. "Sweet. There's _one_ advantage to your age, then."

Bearing her fangs, Drusilla commented, "Your blood is aged just right."


End file.
